Page 82 of In the Garden of Monsters

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There was no funeral parlor to take Lillian’s body to in Bomarzo, so until thecommissariohad enough information for the investigation and they could return her to Rome, they had to keep her in the palazzo. The coroner in neighboring Viterbo had been sent for but would not arrive until the next day. Gala didn’t want Lillian laid out where she’d be a constant reminder of her inconvenient death, so the salons were nixed. Ignazio had thecommissariobring Lillian to the library, where she lay on a long walnut table.

Paolo’s words about Lillian gave me the courage I needed to go to her, late in the afternoon. Although the sun still filtered through the big windows, the room was lit with four or five candelabra, and a fire crackled in the grate.

Someone had closed Lillian’s eyes and mouth, dressed her in a white shirt, smoothed down her hair, and laid her hands at her sides. The bottom half of her body was covered by a sheet. She looked like she was sleeping. I was grateful she no longer looked afraid.

I wanted to tell her I was sorry, but I couldn’t make the words come. I couldn’t speak at all. I knew I would fall apart, and there was so little holding me together. Instead, like Ignazio had done with me, I sat with her in silence, staring at the fire. I didn’t hear any whispers during my vigil, but I had the distinct feeling I wasn’t alone, that my ghosts were there with me, mourning at my side.

Eventually, my body’s needs broke through the numbness of my grief. With a lingering kiss to Lillian’s cold forehead, I excused myself to use the bathroom down the hall. Inside, I caught my reflection in the mirror, a stark reminder of the day’s toll. My appearance was a wreck, hair askew and tear-streaked cheeks. I could almost hear Lillian’s teasing voice, chiding me about my disheveled state. The thought brought a fresh wave of tears, blurring the reflection that so vividly echoed my inner turmoil.

I allowed myself a few moments of unchecked sorrow, the bathroom echoing with the sound of my crying. Gradually, the sobs subsided, and I set about repairing the damage. Splashing water on my face, tidying my hair, I worked to regain some semblance of composure.

On my way back, I was nearly at the library door when I heard Jack calling my name. He and Dalí approached, a study in contrasts. They were a funny sight, even in the midst of my grief—one dark and one light, one taller than the other, one solid and strong, and the other thin and slight. Everything about them was opposing, yet here they were together.

“We wanted to pay our respects,” Jack said, his voice somber.

“Properly,” Dalí added, bowing his head a little.

Given our recent confrontation, I was taken aback by his lack of animosity. The thought of Dalí hovering over Lillian’s lifeless body again gnawed at me, but it seemed ungracious to turn them away now. With a reluctant nod, I led them into the library.

When I saw the empty table, I froze, my heart sinking into my stomach. “She was here...right here, a moment ago.” Panic clawed at my chest. “Who could do this? Why would someone take her?”

“What’s that?” Dalí pointed, his eyes narrowed, his voice tinged with a nervousness that was uncharacteristic of him.

I followed his gaze to the corner of the library. The door to the secret passage was ajar, a dim light glowing from the darkness beyond.

“Whoever did this must have taken her to the garden. This passage leads there,” I said.

I rushed to the corner and peered down the stairs. The torches had all been lit. I knew it was foolish, but I didn’t hesitate. I started down the stairs, not caring if Dalí or Jack followed, which of course they did. Their footsteps and ragged breathing sounded behind me. I don’t know what I expected to do when I found Lillian—if I did—I only knew I had to find her. Or I would die trying. The footsteps that were following us in the snow the night before were from some creature far bigger than me.

As I navigated the secret passage, its contours seemed to change under the torchlight. Chisel marks told a story of laborious excavation, and soot-blackened spots above each torch marred the ceiling. While I could see easily and didn’t have to rely on the cautious bob of a flashlight, the passage felt just as interminable as it had when we first discovered it. Finally, I had to stop to catch my breath, allowing Jack and Dalí to catch up.

Dalí looked unnerved. “This might be a bad idea,” he muttered, glancing around the stone walls as if they could close in at any moment.

It was such a ridiculous statement I almost laughed.

Jack looked pensive, his eyes squinting as if trying to pierce the darkness ahead. “You have to wonder, with Lillian gone so suddenly... Could be we’re not alone in this place. Could be some deranged killer lurking in the shadows,” he said, his voice low and ominous.

A shiver crawled down my spine. “You really think a murderer would be hiding here?”

Jack shrugged, his eyes shifting, evasive. “Who knows? People do all kinds of horrible things for reasons we can’t always understand.”

Dalí looked from me to Jack, as if sensing an unspoken tension. His eyes darted nervously. “Indeed, madness and genius often walk hand in hand, but a killer—that’s something else altogether.”

Jack smirked at Dalí. “You should be excited about this. An excursion into the heart of one of the most surreal places on Earth.”

Dalí narrowed his eyes at Jack. “This is not a game.”

“Isn’t it?”

I don’t know what compelled Jack to say such a thing, but I think he saw the horror written on my face. He quickly put his arm around my shoulders and hugged me tight. “Don’t worry, Jules, we’ll find her.”

“Let’s keep going.” I pulled away, unsure what to think about what had just happened, and doubly irritated that he’d called me by the nickname that Lillian always used for me.

We resumed our journey down the dark passage, but Jack’s words hung in the air, each step forward accompanied by a growing sense of dread.

“If there is a killer,” Dalí said as we continued on, “we have nothing with which to defend ourselves.”

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