Page 79

TWENTY-FIVE
A minute after Archie leaves, Carter pops into Lenora’s room to check on us. He looks, for lack of a better word, haggard from lack of sleep.
“Guess the third floor didn’t treat you well,” I say.
He answers with a yawn. “How can any of you stand it in here? All night I felt like I was sleeping in a bed with two of its legs sawed off.”
“Right now, it’s safer than the cottage. How does the lawn look?”
“Like there’s a big hole in it,” Carter says.
“Has something like this ever happened before?”
He shakes his head. “Not while I’ve been here.”
“So why is it happening now?” I probe.
“That’s a very good question. One I can’t answer. Besides, I’m more worried about if it’s going to happen again.”
I look toward the night-shrouded window, grateful I can’t see the edge of the terrace and the ocean waves careening toward the base of the cliff far below it. Still, I wonder if after last night the mansion has shifted even more—and how much more it can go before toppling over entirely.
While I glance at the window, Carter sets his gaze on Lenora. “Learn anything new?”
I check to make sure she’s still listening to her Walkman before pulling him into my room. “She confirmed she was pregnant,” I say.
“What happened to the baby?”
“I don’t know. She stopped typing after that. She made it very clear she doesn’t want to talk about it.”
“Do you think the baby was born?” Carter says, avoiding what he really wants to ask: Do I think the baby was his father?
I study his features, trying to detect even the slightest resemblance to Lenora. There’s nothing. Especially in the eyes. Carter’s are a warm hazel. A far cry from Lenora’s startling green. Yet I can’t rule out the possibility, either. We have no idea what Ricardo Mayhew looked like, other than Lenora’s description of him as incredibly good-looking. Carter’s definitely got that part covered.
“I don’t know. All she told me is that the baby is gone, which could mean anything. I even asked Archie—”
“Do you trust him?”
“No,” I say. “Because he lied. He told me Lenora was never pregnant.”
“Maybe he didn’t know.”
“It’s more likely he doesn’t want anyone else to know. Including Mary.”
Carter flinches, and I can tell he’s picturing the same thing I am. Mary on the terrace, suitcase in hand, Archie barreling toward her, twice her size.
“You shouldn’t have asked him about it,” he says, his voice going quiet. “Now I’m worried he thinks you know too much.”
I am, too. But for a reason different than Carter’s. Mine is an abstract fear that none of what we’re doing will change things.The past is in the past, Archie said.It does no one any good to start digging it up.Am I doing more harm than good by forcing Lenora to talk about the child who’s no longer with her and the night her family was slaughtered? Will Mary’s family and friends be better off knowing her cause of death was murder instead of suicide? Maybe Detective Vick was rightabout my having an ulterior motive for doing all this. That it’s not Lenora or Mary or even Carter I’m concerned about.
It’s me.
And what will happen if I can’t prove anything?
“He doesn’t,” I say. “Because I don’t. We only have theories, not facts.”
“So what now?”
“I don’t know. Maybe Lenora will soon want to start typing again.”