CHAPTER ELEVEN

Carmen

What do you know about your sister’s marriage?”

I stare down at the floor, nausea filling me. I can’t get the image of Carolina out of my mind.

Did she suffer? Was she alone and scared? Was she waiting for me to come to her aid?

My sister is dead.

It feels like a nightmare I can’t wake from.

I wrap my arms around myself, my body shaking.

“Miss Acosta?”

The detective’s voice, more insistent now, pulls me out of my reverie, and I glance up, meeting his gaze.

“I’m sorry—what was the question?”

“What can you tell me about your sister’s marriage?”

The image of Asher carrying Carolina is burned in my mind.

“Not much. I haven’t been here very long. I was in Havana and Carolina was here.”

The detective scribbles something in his notepad, and then he pauses, his pen hovering in midair.

“Were you and your sister close?”

The truth is on my lips, the urge to confess that I’ve always wished I was closer to my sister, that despite being raised in the same household, I’ve often felt as though we are strangers, that there were things about Carolina I struggled to understand, but there’s a sharpness in the detective’s eyes that makes me nervous.

I’m a stranger here in Miami, no friends or family to speak of save for Asher. In Havana, the police could be friend or foe depending on their agenda, and my father was always careful in his dealings with them, lest he end up on the wrong side of someone who had taken a bribe or couldn’t be trusted. I can’t tell if the detective is crooked or not, but in the absence of certainty, it seems best to proceed with caution.

“She was my sister. The last family I have left. What do you think, Detective?”

“Were your sister and Mr. Wyatt close?”

“I—I don’t know.” Considering I’ve only been at Marbrisa for a couple days, pleading ignorance seems to be the best policy. I don’t want to be caught in a lie by this man. “They were married,” I offer, feeling a bit helpless, Carolina’s earlier words coming back to me. What do I know about relations between husbands and wives?

“That doesn’t mean they were happily married,” the detective counters.

“Just what are you implying? Do you think Asher killed Carolina?”

It’s the question that’s been running through my mind since I found Asher carrying her body.

“Do you think he killed your sister?”

“I—I don’t know. He told me he heard a scream and went to investigate.”

It’s certainly plausible considering the same thing happened to me, and yet, I can’t accept it as the truth, either.

“Do you believe that?”

“I don’t know. He was carrying her when I found them.”

There was so much blood.

Do I believe Asher is capable of murder? I’d like to think he isn’t, but I don’t really know him, and I’m not sure how well Carolina did, either.

You have no idea what being married is like. Especially to a man like Asher.

My conversation with Carolina on the stairs—my last conversation with her—runs through my mind like a warning.

If I had known that I would never see her again, never speak to her again, I would have handled things differently. Now it seems like such a waste that we spent so much time fighting over imagined slights, holding on to resentments that developed when we were children and bubbled up years later.

Regret fills me, piercing through the haze of shock and grief that has settled over me like a miasma.

Emotion clogs my throat as I ask the question that has been plaguing me since I first saw her. “What happened to Carolina?”

How long has it been since I found Asher carrying Carolina’s body? Hours? Time exists in a suspended state.

He hesitates. “She was stabbed.”

Tears fill my eyes.

It makes sense considering all the blood, but there’s a gruesome finality to it, hearing the words fall from the detective’s lips, that I wasn’t quite prepared for.

“We’re searching for the weapon now. We’ll find it.” He glances down at his notebook once more before looking back at me.

Some of the sharpness in his gaze has softened, sympathy lingering there.

How many times has he had to deliver news like this to victims’ families? It can’t get any easier. There’s a distance in his manner as though he’s afraid I’m going to fall apart at any moment and is ill-equipped to deal with the aftermath.

“The staff thinks your sister and Asher had problems in their marriage.”

How many people have they questioned?

“I don’t know. I don’t think anyone can really know what goes on in a marriage besides the people who are in it. Carolina didn’t confide in me about her relationship with Asher.”

You have no idea what being married is like. Especially to a man like Asher.

“Did they seem happy?” he asks.

“Carolina seemed off. We hadn’t seen each other in years, so I can’t claim to be an expert on my sister’s moods, but she was upset about something. There’s a tension in the house, among the staff and everyone. A couple of days ago, one of the maids found a dead peacock on the front steps of the house. From what I understand, it wasn’t the first time something like that has happened here.”

He makes a noise, but whether of acknowledgment or dismissal, I can’t tell.

“Asher said that he told the police about it.”

The detective is silent, his gaze inscrutable.

Fine, let him keep his secrets. Or try, at least. But if he’s going to investigate this case, he’s going to need people to talk to him, and they’re not going to do it unless he offers something in return.

“Do you think Asher is responsible? That he killed Carolina? Has he been arrested?” I ask.

“We’re still investigating.”

There’s some hesitancy in the detective’s manner, a caution that makes me wonder if he’s afraid to accuse someone as wealthy as Asher appears to be. Because this happened at Marbrisa, it will no doubt be a source of speculation and gossip in the area. If it had happened elsewhere, at a home less fine, would he have been quicker to consider this matter resolved and Asher guilty of murder?

Do I believe Asher to be capable of murder? Maybe? I don’t know how to judge such a thing.

“Wait—you said you haven’t found the weapon yet?”

“It’s a big estate. And then there’s the bay. Plenty of places for her killer to have dumped it. Like I said, we’re searching.”

“Asher wouldn’t have had much time to hide the weapon. Hardly any at all. As soon as I heard my sister scream, I ran to find her. The back of the house looks over the bay. If he had dumped the weapon there, I would have seen him. Did you search him?”

The detective hesitates for a moment and then he nods.

At least he’s sharing something.

“But he didn’t have the weapon on him?”

“No.”

“Did you search around where the body was found? Did you search the maze?”

“Miss Acosta, I’ve been a detective for longer than you’ve been alive. This isn’t my first murder investigation. Of course I searched near the body. And we’re searching the maze. We are continuing to look for it. We will find it.”

“How could Asher have disposed of it so quickly—in what, less than a minute?—and so well that hours later you haven’t been able to find it?”

Maddeningly, he doesn’t answer me this time.

He crosses his arms in front of his chest, staring down at me on the sofa.

“The staff mentioned that you spent an hour alone with your brother-in-law tonight. What were you discussing?”

“Excuse me?”

“You were in the library with your sister’s husband for quite some time.”

Anger fills me, piercing through the haze of sadness.

“He is my brother-in-law,” I snap. “Also, the custodian of my inheritance thanks to my parents’ wishes. It’s not unusual for us to have things to discuss.”

The detective writes something in his notebook before turning his attention back to me.

“In the middle of the night?”

“I couldn’t sleep. The storm woke me.”

The house had seemed so quiet, and like the detective pointed out, it was the middle of the night. Who saw me and Asher in the library? And why would they think it was suspicious enough to merit telling the police about it?

I try to remember if the door was open when we were in the library or if we had closed it. Did someone see me walking around earlier tonight and follow me downstairs? The notion that someone was watching me move through the house is more than a little unsettling.

“Have you considered that the person who was skulking around Marbrisa, the person who told you this, might have been the person who Carolina was meeting?”

“We’re considering all angles.” He pauses. “What makes you think Carolina was meeting someone?”

I think back to what I saw earlier tonight, trying to recall my sister’s behavior. “Her mannerisms. She was in a hurry, like she was late for something. And she was dressed nicely.”

“Like she was coming from a party?”

“Maybe? I don’t know. She wasn’t at dinner this evening.”

“Did she often miss dinner?”

“I have no idea. I only just arrived. We’ve only dined together once since I’ve been here.”

His brow arches. “Why was that?”

“I don’t know. Look, things with Carolina could be”—I search for the word Asher and I settled on earlier—“complicated,” I finish. “Do you have siblings, Detective?”

“I do.”

I sit quietly, expectantly.

He sighs, the sound so low that I nearly miss it.

“A brother.”

“Younger or older?”

“Younger.”

“And do the two of you get along?”

“When he’s not being a pain in the ass.”

I don’t say anything, but then again I don’t have to. There’s a crack in the facade, a softening, and for a moment I almost see the man behind the badge.

“Does that happen often?” the detective asks.

“What?”

“You not being able to sleep.”

“Since I lost my parents?”

He looks momentarily abashed.

“Yes,” I reply. “Not to mention, things here were a bit unsettling what with the dead animal and all the rumors flying around. My dreams weren’t exactly pleasant.”

“Rumors?”

I hesitate, feeling more than a little silly telling him about the ghosts and the rest of it. Although surely, if he’s from around here, he’s heard it all before, and if it’s helpful at all in terms of finding my sister’s killer, then I want him to understand.

“About the house—being haunted.”

He casts his gaze toward heaven as though asking for patience or divine intervention, before leveling his stare at me.

I study him for a moment, trying to make sense of the man standing before me. Maybe it’s just his manner or his line of questioning, but he doesn’t feel like an ally or a friend, and he certainly doesn’t seem like someone I can trust. Rather, I get the sense that he’s suspicious of everyone and everything, likely good qualities to be had in a detective, but it gives me pause because I can’t help but wonder if he considers me to be a suspect as well.

Just what are people telling him?

“This house isn’t haunted. Cursed, perhaps, but not haunted,” he replies. “There’s a very real person who is responsible for your sister’s death, and I promise you I won’t rest until I see the perpetrator behind bars.”

There’s a hint of both a threat and a promise in his words that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

“Was Carolina afraid?” he asks me.

“I don’t know. If she was, she didn’t tell me about it.” My voice cracks and I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. “My sister died today, Detective. I’ve lost the only family member I have left. I haven’t slept. Is it possible for us to continue this conversation another time? If you don’t have any more questions for me, I’d really like to rest.”

“I would think you would be eager to see your sister’s death avenged.”

“I am. But I thought finding her killer was your job. After all, you’re the professional.”

“Often it’s the people who know a victim best who can help steer us in the right direction.”

I do want to know who killed Carolina, but this is all happening so quickly, and it’s hard to know who to trust. I’m afraid that in my tiredness I might say something I will later regret, might give him some ammunition to use against me. And the more time that passes, the more the reality of Carolina’s death settles in.

It wasn’t so long ago that I was sitting on another sofa, in another living room, listening to a police officer tell me that I’d lost my parents.

If I don’t get out of here soon, I fear I’ll break.

“Fine, then. I’ll come back later today in the afternoon.” The detective rises from his chair, slipping his notepad into the pocket of his jacket.

Relief fills me. He makes me nervous, and right now, more than anything, I need to keep my bearings about me.

“Be careful.”

I still. “Pardon me?”

“Your sister was killed at Marbrisa. Chances are whoever did it knows the house intimately well. I’d lock your door tonight, Miss Acosta.”

My heart pounds.

“I’ve always hated this house,” he mutters under his breath. His voice is so low that I get the impression he says it more to himself than for me, but still, I’m surprised by his candor—and his vehemence.

“Good night, Detective—” I flush. “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name.”

He glances around the room for a moment, taking one last look, and then the strangest thing happens. Even in my sleep-deprived state, I swear he shudders.

“It’s Pierce. Detective Pierce.”