Page 31 of One Last Breath

“So think about that. The Greenwoods know who you are. They know you got two different people arrested for murder, but they still hired you and brought you here to work for them. You really think that they’re covering up two murders but still brought the Great Detective here to clean their house?”

“Yes,” I insist. “Yes.” Tears are coming to my eyes. I hate them, but I can’t stop them. “Lila Benson deserves justice. No one should just be allowed to disappear like… like they never existed. Like they never met anything to anybody.”

He stares at me incredulously, no doubt amazed at the amount of emotion I feel over this. “Did you know Lila?”

“No.” I wipe tears from my eyes. “I don’t have to know someone to want justice for them.”

He shakes his head slowly. “This isn’t about justice. This is personal to you.” When I don’t respond, he says, “I’m going to leave you with two thoughts: One, Lila Benson isn’t whoever it was close to you who was murdered, so stop projecting.”

“Fuck you!”

The sound of those words leaving my mouth shocks me. I can’t recall the last time I’ve used such a vulgar epithet. It concerns me that my self-control is so tenuous.

Nathaniel doesn’t seem bothered by it in the least. “Two, if what you’re saying is true, and considering that what I’m saying is definitely true, you should seriously think about letting this go so you don’t become the second governess to disappear.”

He walks away without waiting for a response from me. I stand there for a long time, long enough that I can feel the sun moving through the sky. My hands are balled into fists, and my body trembles with emotion.

He's right. Of course, I'm projecting. I'm upset that justice was never found for my sister, and I'm finding justice for others as a surrogate for Annie.

But I’m also avoiding. Before I was a schoolteacher, I was studying psychology. I know enough about the subject to know that I’m projecting so I can avoid confronting the real mystery.

I have everything I need to look into my sister’s murder, but I’m not. Instead, the business card Niall gave me sits unused in my handbag while I embroil myself once more in another family’s tragedy.

But I can’t stop. I have to know. I have to find justice for Lila. And once more, Annie will have to wait.

I bury my head in my hands and weep.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The weekend arrives, and as before, the children keep me occupied enough that I can’t do any more snooping. I take them to Mass again on Sunday, mostly so I can get out of the house and breathe for a moment. Father Doyle tries to speak to me again after the service, but I beg off, claiming that I must hurry back to the estate to take care of some pressing business. It’s a thin lie, and I’m certain he sees right through it, but he doesn’t press me.

Monday arrives, and the children are in school. My light work as housekeeper begins anew, but I find my resolve has weakened considerably. Despite my bravado the week before, Nathaniel’s warning does shake me. I am convinced the Greenwoods are guilty of Lila’s murder, but if they knew who I was and what I did to the Carltons and the Ashfords and still hired me, then they must be confident they can handle me if I get too nosy.

And I have been nosy.

It occurs to me on Tuesday that Elizabeth even mentions the Ashfords to me on my first day of employment. It’s as though she’s warning me that they already know who I am, and I can’t expect to sneak around with them the way I do with my previous employers. Yet I remain oblivious to that possibility until Nathaniel warns me.

I’ve been a fool. Christopher and Annabelle both know I’m looking into Lila’s disappearance, and I have to hope Violet really has dementia, or she knows as well. I’ve been fortunate, I believe, that Elizabeth and James don’t know so far, but what if they do? What if they’re only waiting for the right opportunity?

I avoid going into the grounds after that. I try to stay near the other servants when I’m doing my chores, and when I’m not doing chores, I either stay in my locked room or I sit on the back porch in full view of the groundskeepers. I could simply be paranoid, but I’ve nearly been killed once already by Cecilia Ashford, and if I intend to continue playing the “Great Detective,” chances are good someone will succeed eventually.

By Wednesday, I am a nervous wreck. Every noise causes me to jump, and I barely sleep that night for fear the nightmare I wake to will be worse than whatever haunts me as I sleep.

I woke on Thursday exhausted and bedraggled. It's time for this to end. I can no longer do this on my own.

I shower and dress, spending more time with my makeup than I have in decades, not because I’m trying to look attractive but because I want to hide the effects of my paranoia. I manage to be presentable, and I think that’s probably the best I can expect right now.

I leave before breakfast. I rarely dine with the family, so I don’t believe anyone will wonder why I’m not present. I walk into the historic district and from there take a bus to my destination. The Savannah Police Department has several locations within walking distance of the house, but I don’t want to risk being seen by anyone who knows the Greenwoods. If someone sees me boarding the bus, I can claim I was visiting the Wildlife Refuge on Skidaway Island.

I take the bus to the Chatham County Police Department in Vernonburg, the suburb just south of Savannah. If they want to contact the city police and let them handle the case, then they can do that. I’ll express to them my desire to remain anonymous and hope they’ll respect it.

My heart pounds as I leave the bus and walk into the headquarters building. I haven’t been inside of a police building since Annie disappeared. I can only hope I have more success with these detectives than I did with those who handled Annie’s case.

I tell the desk officer that I’d like to report a murder. The bored expression in her eyes doesn’t change one bit as she takes my information and then tells me to take a seat in the lobby and wait.

I stare blankly at her a moment, stunned that such an admission can elicit nothing from her. Has the world gone mad? Are we so inundated with violence that its existence in our own backyards changes nothing?

She sighs and repeats. “Please take a seat. Detective Donnelly will be with you shortly.”

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