CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Does this mean I’m going to make it?” Nathaniel croaks.
I rise from the chair in the corner of his room and walk over to the hospital bed, relief filling me. I was worried he would never regain consciousness, that the damage he suffered at George’s hands would prove to be fatal.
“How long have I been unconscious?” he asks when I reach his bedside.
I glance back at the clock in the hospital room. “About twelve hours now.”
“What happened?”
“You were knocked out. He snuck up on us when we found Mrs. Morrison lying on the floor of my bedroom. He tried to kill me, too. I stabbed him with the knife I found in Asher’s glove box.”
The knife that killed my sister.
Somehow, there’s poetic justice in that.
Nathaniel doesn’t ask me if I’m alright, or say anything at all. Instead, he reaches out, offering his hand.
I hesitate for a moment, and then I fit my palm against his, our fingers linking.
It’s strange to share such intimacy with someone I couldn’t stand in the beginning, but now that we’ve been through something so terrifying together, there’s an understanding of sorts between us. I doubt either one of us will ever forget what happened last night.
“And Mrs. Morrison?” Nathaniel asks.
“She’s in the room next to you. She’s awake. The police are talking to her. I haven’t had a chance to.”
He winces. “Who was it?”
“The head gardener. George.”
“I didn’t see that one,” he mutters.
“Neither did I.”
Nathaniel’s hospital room opens, and Asher walks through. His gaze drifts from Nathaniel lying in bed, to me, and then he rushes toward me.
“Are you alright?” Asher asks me.
I nod, releasing Nathaniel’s hand.
Asher embraces me, and I allow myself to relax into his hug, to fully accept what I never could before when I was plagued with doubts. He may just be my family by marriage, but he’s the only family I have left, the brother I never had.
“When they told me what happened . . . I’m so sorry you were alone. I can’t imagine how terrifying that must have been,” Asher says.
“Are you free now?” I ask.
He nods. “They took a few final statements, wanted to clear some things up about George, but they released me for good. I came here as soon as I could.” He walks away from me, toward Nathaniel.
The door opens again and Detective Pierce ducks his head in the room.
“Miss Acosta, we’re done speaking with Mrs. Morrison. She’d like to see you now. You can go to her room.”
“Thank you.”
True to his word, Detective Pierce arrived at the house just after I stabbed George. He was quick to take over the situation, and I’m grateful he was there considering I was in no shape to handle much of anything.
He shakes his head. “Seems like I should be thanking you. Mrs. Morrison helped fill in the missing pieces about what happened to Lenora and Carolina. I never thought I’d see justice for Lenora Watson in my lifetime.”
“In truth, I did little. It was mostly Carolina.”
I turn toward the door to leave the hospital room.
“Nancy Drew?”
I whirl around.
A ghost of a smile plays at Nathaniel’s lips. “Thank you for saving my life.”
“I should have said something,” Mrs. Morrison says from her hospital bed.
“You knew George was Lenora and Robert’s son?”
“Yes, I did.”
“How? When did you find out?”
She sighs. “I overheard a conversation one day between Robert and his attorney. Back when he and Anna lived at Marbrisa. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, you understand. I was cleaning, and I’m sure he thought the house was empty.”
“Did you tell Anna?”
“I did not. I thought about it. But back then—well, he wasn’t the first man I worked for who fathered a child with his mistress. I wasn’t sure what she knew. It didn’t feel like my place to tell her. Besides, I was newly widowed, and I needed the job. I couldn’t afford the possibility of Mr. Barnes firing me. I’ve regretted that since.”
She takes a deep breath. “I knew of Lenora’s family. Not well, but by reputation and some acquaintances in common. I kept an eye on the boy because I felt for him. He came to me when his grandmother told him who he really was. I helped him get a job at Marbrisa. I thought I was righting a wrong that had been done to him. I regret that more than you’ll ever know.”
Anger fills me, anger and so much regret. Would my sister still be alive if things had happened differently?
“How did Carolina figure into all of this?” I ask.
“She became obsessed with Anna. And then when she learned about Lenora, well, she started digging into the past. I never realized she would put it all together. Or that George would kill your sister. I never thought he could be a killer. He was a good boy. When he came home to care for his grandmother we were all so impressed by how much he loved her—” She swallows. “I guess you never know about people. They have good and bad in them, and it’s hard to know which one will win out.”
I should be surprised Carolina put everything together, but somehow, I’m not. Carolina always was capable of anything she put her mind to.
“Carolina was smart. People always forgot that. I forgot that.”
“She was. Your sister was a complicated young woman.”
Sometimes I wonder if Carolina’s greatest tragedy was being a complicated woman in a time when women are supposed to be anything but.
My heart aches for Carolina, knowing that she never found peace. It seems supremely unfair that her life was so cruelly cut short, that she was made to suffer so much in her final hours.
Tears spill down Mrs. Morrison’s cheeks. “When she died, I thought Asher killed her. They were so unhappy in their marriage. It seemed like it was history repeating itself again. But after the police arrested Asher, I saw George messing around with Mr. Wyatt’s car. It didn’t look right. I confronted him—I asked him what he was doing, and there was this look in his eyes—
“I saw what he was capable of. I saw what he had done.”
I know what she means. I saw the same expression in George’s face last night—like a mask had slipped.
“Do you believe in spirits?” Mrs. Morrison asks me.
I hesitate. Had she posed this question to me a week ago, I might have given a different answer. Now, I’m not so sure. Belief is a complicated thing. Does it require you to be all in? Do you have to engage in unwavering certainty? Or is uncertainty enough? Is the absence of knowing akin to belief?
“I might.”
“I think there were spirits in that house. Spirits that couldn’t be at peace. You’ve felt them, haven’t you?”
Maybe I was wrong all along. Maybe there were spirits haunting Marbrisa. Did I imagine the necklace on my bedspread that night? Was the smell of the sea on the jewels some invention of mine or was it real? Maybe I’ll never know for sure. But I do know this—
“I felt Carolina with me last night. When I was defending myself against George, it didn’t feel like I was alone. It felt like I had protection. For a moment, it was as though I saw what her final moments were like for her. I think I felt my parents, too.”
“I’m sorry. So sorry. I tried to do the right thing last night when I went to your room to tell you my suspicions and fears, but George followed me.”
It feels as though she’s asking for absolution for the role she played in all of this, but the truth is, it isn’t mine to give.
I can only pray that the women who suffered so much at Marbrisa, who lost their lives, have somehow found peace.
“It’s a sobering thing to come to the end of your life and realize you dedicated the majority of it to caring for a house, to guarding its secrets, and know that you did more harm than good.” Mrs. Morrison takes a deep breath. “That day we spoke in the gazebo, I didn’t tell you everything. Not about Lenora and George, and not about Anna and Robert. I was scared that the truth would come out. That what I did back then—what I helped cover up—would come to light.”
“What do you mean?”
“I felt for Anna Barnes. As a woman, as a wife. I lied to you when I told you they didn’t fight. Well, not entirely. They didn’t fight—except for one night. They had a terrible row. She learned the truth—that he had been involved with Lenora. That Lenora’s death likely wasn’t an accident. She was terrified. Back then, well, the police weren’t always inclined to believe a woman, and a man like Robert had all means of escaping justice.”
My heart pounds. “What happened?”
Mrs. Morrison leans forward, her voice lowering, her words for me alone.
“I helped her escape. When the police came to me, I corroborated Michael’s story about her drowning in the bay, helped make it look like Robert was responsible for his wife’s death.”
“You mean—”
“Anna Barnes is still alive.”