Page 80 of In the Garden of Monsters

“We would cover more ground if we split up,” Jack reasoned. My jaw dropped.

“You can’t be serious?” I said. But I hadn’t told my companions about the horrible events of the night before and I knew they wouldn’t understand my fear. They thought that Lillian had merely gotten lost in the snow.

“Excellent.Aniré per aquí.” I didn’t understand Dalí’s Catalan, but he immediately headed down the upper path toward the top of the Casa Pendente—and the statue of Ceres.

“No. You shouldn’t go alone!” I yelled after him. He waved at me and kept going like he hadn’t heard me.

Gala pointed up the trail past the toppled Etruscan mausoleum toward thetempietto. “It’s daylight,” she said, as though that negated any danger. “You go find Salvador. We’ll check the Pegasus fountain.” She nudged Jack in the direction of Orlando and the woodsman, past which were the fountains and the nymphaeum. Jack gave me a casual wave and went with her, ignoring my worry about being alone.

I flipped them the bird behind their backs, which gave me only the slightest modicum of satisfaction. But I was glad I would be traversing the opposite side of theboschettofrom Ceres. I hoped Dalí would be all right when he reached her statue, but I had no intention of taking direction from Gala.

After she and Jack were out of sight, I backtracked and made my way through the brush to check the entrance to the secret passage. I called for Lillian, hoping that if she ended up there she might hear me. Silence. It was too dark for me to go far into the tunnel, so I was forced to abandon the passage and return to the garden.

As I passed the overturned mausoleum where I had first heard the whispers, I laid my hand upon the rock, wondering if I would hear them again, but everything was silent.

I spent the next fifteen minutes going over all the places where I thought Lillian might have hidden from the storm, starting with the most obvious—thetempietto, which was empty. Dreading the thought of finding her body, I tried not to imagine what wild animals might have gotten to her before we did. I looked in and around the little temple, around Cerberus and around the statues of the sirens. There was a little bit of patchy snow in this part of theboschetto, including on the bench of Proserpina, and enough to make the stairs slippery as I made my way down into the heart of the garden toward the area around theorco.

As I reached the bottom of the stairs, I spotted Dalí in the distance through the trees, across the bramble of weeds and bushes, standing over the open Etruscan tomb where he had last sketched me. He held a little sketchbook and a pen and was drawing furiously. The world seemed to shrink around me, tunneling my vision into a point, the point where his pen hit the paper. I knew what he was drawing.

I ran toward Dalí, past the worn statue of Aries’s ram, until I came to the edge of the tomb. And there was Lillian, her coat gone, her shirt ripped open, exposing her left breast. Snow covered her stomach and legs. One arm was slung over her head, resting on the edge of the tomb, her fingers reaching upward. Her eyes and mouth were open, caught in a moment of pure terror. As I stared at her body in shock, an astonishing, iridescent green beetle climbed out of her mouth.

Screaming, I fell to my knees at the side of the tomb. I was vaguely aware of Dalí backing away and stuffing his notebook in his coat, but the only thing I understood in that moment was that my friend was dead.

My words from the day before ripped through me.You’re just jealous. You wish it was you lying here, cold and naked for the whole world to view.

I did this to her. I should never have brought Lillian to Bomarzo.

At some point, I became aware of others gathered around us, then Ignazio helping me up, his hands hot, his smoke enveloping me with an odd comfort. “Oh, Julia,” he whispered. “Julia, I’m so sorry. This should never have happened.” In his embrace, I felt his deep sorrow—not for Lillian, but the sorrow he had for me.

A tall man with curly dark hair, a mustache, and gray suit stood at the edge of the tomb, barking orders in some unintelligible Italian dialect. Thecommissario.Ignazio led me away, telling me that the inspector would take care of everything. I didn’t have the energy to tell him he was wrong. There was nothing for thecommissarioto take care of. Lillian was dead. She was dead because of me—because I dragged her there.

I barely registered Ignazio whisking me away to the palazzo and providing me with some sort of liquor I willingly drank to dull the pain in my heart. Heading outside, I sat on the terrace, staring down at theboschetto, at the little figures I could see moving among the trees, combing the garden for clues, thecommissariopeppering Gala, Jack, and Dalí with questions.

He would later ask the same questions of me. But for a long while, I just stared down at theboschetto, my heart a dull, empty thing. Ignazio sat there with me, but he did not do or say anything. I don’t know what I would have done if he had tried to talk with me, or touch me, even in sympathy. He hadn’t been the one to harm Lillian—somehow, I was sure of it—but he was wrapped up in all this, and I didn’t have a single iota of trust in him. But he only sat there with me, and for that, I was glad.

Thecommissariowas gentle with me and my less-than-stellar Italian, and I was relieved I didn’t seem to be under any suspicion. But I didn’t tell him what really had happened—how could I? We got caught in the storm and one moment Lillian was behind me and the next she wasn’t. We went down to theboschettoto see what it was like at night. No, we didn’t see any other people in the garden. No, I didn’t know her family, but she had an aunt in Rome whom I had never met. Yes, I knew where she worked. Yes, I loved her. Yes, she was my best friend.

“Will you help me return to Roma?” I asked thecommissarioas the interview was ending.

He pursed his lips. “You will all need to remain here until we have concluded our investigation.”

“Even Dalí?” I asked.

Thecommissariochuckled. “No man is above the law, signorina. Not even him.”

My guess was that Gala had not yet had a chance to grease this man’s palm. I could easily see them departing quickly if she gave him enough cash.

Besides, neither Dalí nor Gala knew what had happened out in the storm. And when they questioned Paolo on the morrow he wouldn’t give up the truth either. The mental hospitals in Italy were known to be torturous places, and neither of us wanted to end up in one.

I went to Paolo that afternoon and sat in the chair at the edge of his bed until he awoke. I wanted to be the one to tell him about Lillian. The doctor had come while we were in theboschettoand had set his leg with plaster. A pair of crutches leaned against the wall.

After I told him about Lillian, he asked me to help him sit up. Once he was upright, his head and back against the backboard, he patted the spot next to him. “Come here.” I climbed onto the bed next to him and he held me while I cried.

I sobbed long and hard, and he let me.

“What happened when you went back for her?” I asked.

“I don’t know. I must have slipped.”

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