Page 45 of One Last Breath

So instead, I listen as George berates the weeping Violet.

“Keep your judgment to yourself. Unless you’d rather end up as the subject of a true crime special. Could be as the murderer, could be as the victim. Hell, why not both?” His voice hardens. “Find me that document, Violet.”

He spins on his heel and vanishes into the trees. For a while, I remain frozen to the spot. It’s not until I see Violet get to her feet that I leave.

I feel bad for leaving her to her own devices. She may be responsible for Deirdre McCoy’s death, but she’s only an old woman now.

But I can’t risk Violet learning that I know the truth. I don’t know how she’ll react. She could tell George that I stole the document in an attempt to protect herself. I still need to bring Lila to justice, and the best way to do that right now is on my own.

So, I rush to the kitchen. The door opens just as I enter it, and I busy myself making tea, just in case Violet sees me when she walks inside..

She doesn’t, and by the time the tea is ready, I’m relaxed enough to think about what to do next.

I want to bring George to justice, but I have no proof other than what I’ve overheard. I highly doubt Violet will risk having her own secret exposed, so I can’t risk asking her to corroborate what I know. If I knew exactly where Lila was buried, it would be as easy as digging her up and telling the police where to find her.

My thoughts return to the geranium garden. Everything seems to return to that spot. Elizabeth claims she’s talking to the Secret Keeper, but maybe she’s talking to Lila’s ghost instead. Lila was looking for the document. George is still looking for the document. It’s not outside of the realm of possibility that they both happened to be snooping on the grounds at the same time. Perhaps George killed her and buried her here.

That would implicate the Greenwoods too. They’ve been jealously guarding whatever secret lies behind that gate. I still don’t know why they would do that and not report the murder to George. I suppose they would do that to protect Violet, but at some point, they won’t be willing to risk the repercussions that come with hiding her past. Maybe that’s why George is so desperate. Maybe he knows he’s on borrowed time.

I should go to the police. Donnelly might fear that Greenwoods, but their power is, apparently, a sham. Surely the entire police department doesn’t fear them enough to ignore me if I reveal what I’ve overheard.

But what if I’m wrong? I thought I had compelling evidence against the Greenwoods when I first went to the police, but Donnelly tore apart my reasoning like it was papier-mache. Of course, I was wrong then, or at least not entirely right. I am right this time.

But I don’t have proof. What if Donnelly decides I’m being paranoid once more? I can’t risk that. I need real evidence.

I have to dig up those flowers. Whatever the risk, I must uncover the smoking gun that will solve this mystery once and for all.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

The next day is Tuesday. I have been with the Greenwoods for six weeks. It hits me that I’ve worked for them longer than the Ashfords or Carltons. I was with the Ashfords for about three weeks and the Carltons for just over a month. I don’t know why that seems important to me.

I think it’s because I was with the Tylers for five months. The boring Tylers. The safe Tylers. The Tylers who, despite being wealthy, were a perfectly well-adjusted family whose twins just happened to be geniuses. Not evil geniuses either. Just garden variety academically gifted children. I worked for them longer than for the other three families combined, yet my time with them is just a footnote in my mind.

In contrast, the few weeks I spend with the Ashfords is a turning point in my life, the fork where I choose the road less traveled and forsake the quiet, comfortable life I’ve led for twenty-five years prior. The month with the Carltons is a reckoning where I accept the fact that my sister’s memory haunts me and drives me to find justice for those who have had it denied.

And my time with the Greenwoods has been the mirror through which I examine myself and realize that there’s no avoiding who I am now. My time with the children here is little more than a footnote, just as the Tylers were. I do like the children, but my weekends spent watching them have felt like interruptions in the mystery I consider my true purpose. I am here to find justice for Lila Benson, a woman who was murdered by an evil man and whose murder was covered up by a wealthy family selfishly seeking to protect one of their own, who is also a murderer.

I spend the first days of each of my jobs trying to convince myself that I want only to do my work as a governess or housekeeper. Each time, I eventually succumb to the thirst for justice that motivates me.

I don’t think I’ll lie to myself anymore. I can’t be sure of that, because if there’s one thing everyone is capable of, it’s lying, especially to themselves.

But I don’t think I’ll succeed at that anymore. And I won’t let fear control me. I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to act, but what I’ve really been doing is avoiding the risks I need to take if I’m to fulfil my purpose here and bring Lila to justice.

So, after the family leaves for work, I leave the estate and head to town. There’s a hardware store a few miles away. I walk there and purchase a shovel. I don’t intend to be careful with the flowers. Once I find what’s buried underneath those geraniums, it won’t matter if I’m caught.

I take the bus back to the estate, so I don't have to carry the shovel the entire way. I arrive at eleven-thirty in the morning. The groundskeepers will be working in the Glens today, so I should have the gardens to myself.

I pass the wrathful Moses, staff upraised to strike the rock. His visage frightens me when I first arrive, but now it motivates me. In his furrowed brow and bared teeth, I see the same strength that moves me. He is forced to fetch water out of a rock for the rebellious Israelites. It now falls to me to dig justice out of the ground in spite of the murderous wealthy.

I make my way through the gardens. As I suspect, I am alone. I walk through the solar garden with its orderly rays of red and orange and gold radiating from the bright yellow plat of sunflowers in the center. The heads of the sunflowers hang low, staring at me like the eyes of an ophanim.

I walk past the hedges of honeysuckle. Their cloying odor seems sickly to me now. The Romanesque statuary gazes impassively, mute witnesses to who knows how many crimes. Perhaps they are the rebellious Israelites, too foolish to know their crime, too shortsighted to foresee the wrath they’ve provoked.

The ground crunches softly under my feet, the gravel walkways a quiet alarm to the world around that vengeance walks among them. My sister’s voice laughs somewhere in the back of my mind, but I don’t heed her taunts, nor do I pay any thought to the image of her ghost with its blackened voids in place of eyes. I am here to right a wrong, and I won’t allow myself to be stopped.

I reach the wrought iron gate and grasp the handle boldly.

It doesn’t move.

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