Page 46 of One Last Breath

I turn again, more firmly. It remains wedged in place. When I look down, I see a padlock slid through the bars of the gate and around the handle. It’s this lock that prevents the handle from turning.

I stare at that lock, my heartbeat quickening with frustration. It’s a strong lock, heavy and thick. It gleams dully, a quiet resistance to my defiance.

My hand tightens around the handle of the shovel, and I focus on my breathing to keep from shouting with rage. I should have seen this coming. Of course they would lock the gate. Behind it lies the most destructive secret their family possesses. The only mystery is why they haven’t locked it before.

I lift the shovel, thinking to break the lock with the edge, but I lower it without even attempting. This lock is massive, the sort used to secure warehouses, not the simple lock people purchase for jewelry boxes. I would need a pair of sturdy bolt cutters, and even then, I would be better off cutting the bars of the gate themselves rather than the lock.

I will have to find another way in. I can't just throw my hands up in defeat. I can't find help from anyone else. I have no guarantee that doing so wouldn't work against me. The only thing I know for sure is that behind this gate lies proof of George's crime. I must see that proof, document it, and then call the police to show them the irrefutable evidence that will put George Baumann behind bars where he deserves.

I walk around the hedge that surrounds the garden, testing it every few yards. I learn this way that the fence surrounds the entire garden. By the time I return to the gate, it is nearly one o’clock. I still have at least two hours before anyone returns home, and four hours before Elizabeth arrives. I try to tell myself that’s enough time to find an answer, but deep down I know I’m lying to myself.

I can’t allow myself to be defeated, though. Not when I’m so close. There must be a way in.

I look up at the hedge. It’s perhaps fifteen feet tall. I don’t know how far up the fence extends. The gate is thirteen feet tall, but I don’t know if it’s taller than the fence, shorter or the same height. If I climb the fence and something goes wrong, I could injure myself severely. I could even fall to my death and join the ghosts haunting this property.

But I must get in. I can’t wait anymore. George Baumann is growing more aggressive, and the Greenwoods are going more desperate. The powder keg lying underneath this estate is ready to explode, and when it does, Lila’s chance at justice will disappear with it.

I take a deep breath and toss the shovel up toward the top of the hedge. It lifts nine feet into the air, then falls down. I shriek and dive out of the way just before the metal head buries itself into the ground where I was standing a moment ago.

Cheeks burning, I get to my feet and grab the shovel. I don’t know what I was thinking. I am not a superhero.

Instead of trying to throw the shovel over the hedge, I walk back to the gate and slide it through the bars. It occurs to me at that time, that I won’t have to wonder how tall the fence is if I climb over the one part of the fence that isn’t covered by ivy.

I sigh and shake my head. Sometimes, I am more of a fool than anyone.

I grab the fence in my hands and try to pull myself up. I manage to lift myself onto my tiptoes only.

I stare at the fence, rage filling me once more. All of this, and I’m too weak to pull myself up?

I press my feet against the vertical bars of the fence and try to use that leverage to lift myself. It works! I pull myself up a foot or so off the ground.

Then I try to lift my feet higher on the bars, and as soon as I lift my right leg, my left slides down. I fall, crying out as my hands slide down the bars. When I hit the ground, I nearly fall, but I hold onto the bars with a death grip, so instead of falling onto my back, I slam my head forward against the gate.

Pain rockets through me, and I release the gate and sit in front of it, shaking with the pain and the rage that comes with it.

If the fence had horizontal cross bars, I could do this. If the hedge was stronger and the vines were thick enough to support my weight, I could climb it. Not easily, perhaps, but I could do it.

But I can’t do this. That stupid padlock has locked me out of the answers I need to bring an end to all of this madness. I have failed.

I lower my head to cry, but before the tears can fall, I hear footsteps behind me. I stiffen and listen. I hear a voice muttering with the footsteps. I can’t tell what the voice is saying or who it belongs to, but I can hear that it’s approaching.

I get quickly to my feet and dash for cover behind a nearby bush. I make it three steps then remember the shovel. I curse and run back, then grab the shovel and pull it out of the fence. It clangs against the iron bars, and I curse again, then sprint away. I diver behind the bush just before the shadow of the approaching individual comes into view.

I still and force my breathing to calm. I watch the gate, and a moment later, I stifle a gasp when George Baumann comes into view.

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

George Baumann stops in front of the gate. He wears a long leather coat and sweats profusely in the summer sun. His face is beet red, and I’m amazed that he hasn’t fainted from heat exhaustion.

He opens the coat, and I realize the purpose for the attire when I see a pair of sturdy bolt cutters. He mutters something, and this time, I understand what he says. “Thought you’d lock me out of here, huh? Well, this is what you get, bitch.”

The vulgarity is disquieting, even if it's not particularly surprising. George lifts the bolt cutters to the lock and strains as he tried to break through the steel.

The handles of the bolt cutters move slowly toward each other, then stop. George strains until his red face turns purple, then stops, gasping and shaking. He stares in amazement at the lock and mutters, “What the hell?” then tries again.

This time, when his face turns purple, he bares his teeth and growls, continuing to squeeze the bolt cutter. The handles still, then slowly approach each other again.

Then, with a loud snap, the handles crash together. George pitches forward, hitting his head on the bars. He hisses with pain and drops the bolt cutters, backing up and pressing his palm to his forehead as he bobs up and down in an effort to endure the injury without shouting. The effect is hilarious, but I can’t judge him since I was in an equally comical situation only a moment ago.

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