Page 45 of The Only One Left

A muffled roar drifts from the TV. On the tiny screen, someone from the Phillies circles the bases after hitting a home run. Carter reaches for the television and switches it off.

“And you really do like it here?” I say.

Carter spreads his arms wide. “I’ve got my own place, and it comes with a view of the ocean. Not many people can say that. Sure, the job’s a bit much for just me, but then again, Hope’s End doesn’t get too many visitors, so there’s no need to impress anyone. What’s not to like?”

“Um, the fact that three people were murdered here. And that there are still bloodstains in the carpet.”

“I see you’ve taken the murder tour.”

“Jessie showed me around last night,” I say with a nod.

“Please don’t tell me you’re now thinking of running away like Mary did.”

“How well do you know her?”

“Enough to think you were her,” Carter says.

I look down at my uniform, which had once been worn by Mary. The fact that I can fit into it means we’re about the same size and height. No wonder Carter mistook me for her in the dark.

“It must have been strange thinking she’d suddenly come back.”

“Not as strange as the way she left,” Carter says. “No notice or warning. One day, Mary was simply gone. It was a surprise. I’d assumed she was happy here.”

“Jessie also said she was surprised.”

“She and Mary were pretty close. I, on the other hand, mostly keep to myself. Don’t get me wrong. Mary and I were friends. The truth is, I didn’t see much of her. I live here. She stayed in the mansion, spending most of her time with Lenora. So we didn’t exactly hang out. Most of the time, we’d chat on the terrace in the evenings. Every time I spotted her uniform, I’d come out and say hi.”

“Do you think Lenora had something to do with why she left?” I say. “That Mary was, I don’t know, frightened of her somehow?”

“It sounds like you think Lenora’s guilty,” Carter says.

I stare into my drink, contemplating my reflection wobbling atop the amber liquid. Fitting, for I feel wobbly myself. My opinion of Lenora has shifted so much in the past two days that I no longer know how I feel.

“It sounds like you think she isn’t. So who do you think did it? Winston Hope or the painter?”

“Neither,” Carter says. “I think it was Ricardo Mayhew.”

I look up from the whiskey, confused. “Who?”

“The groundskeeper at the time. He and his wife were living in this cottage when the murders occurred. She wasn’t here. She worked as a kitchen maid and was given the night off with the rest of the servants. She went into town and saw a movie. Ricardo, though, stayed behind.”

“Did the police know this?”

“They did,” Carter says. “Back in 1929 it was widely suspected that not every member of the household staff left for the night.”

“How doyouknow this?”

“From my predecessor. I poured the drinks, and he told me stories about this place. Another reason I took the job. After hearing so much about Hope’s End, I wanted to experience it for myself.”

“So this groundskeeper—”

“Ricardo,” Carter interjects.

I nod. “Right. Ricardo. He stayed behind and did... what?”

“No one knows.”

“The police didn’t question him after the murders?”

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