Page 85 of A Secret In The Garden

“How do you think I’m doing?” I snapped. “I—I thought she was alive the last twenty years of my life, and every second of every one of those days, I’ve hated her for leaving me behind—but she never left.” I clenched my fist to stop myself from punching the wall—or sobbing like a baby.

Sowerby remained silent.

“He did this; my father is the one that did this; he killed my mother.” I stood, the surge of emotion too strong to remain sitting. “They must’ve gotten into it that night too. He must’ve killed her that night, buried her while I was off pouting by the cliff. I could have saved her had I stayed inside. I’ll decapitate him, Sowerby,” I stated.

Sowerby’s eyes were rimmed with sadness as he let out a long exhale. “Why don’t you refrain from making any more threats of murder while we are in the police station, barely staying out of a cell as it is? Leon’s a good attorney, but he’s not that good. Besides, we should wait until the autopsy report before we go blaming Darius.”

I turned. My eyes combed over the man’s face. “What do you know?”

“Enough,” he answered. “We need to find your father immediately.”

Chapter 27

Eliza

You’re not staying over at that house, Eliza.” My mother’s tone was sharp. Dominant. Familiar. It was a warning voice before it turned darker.

Don’t back down. You back down one time, and you’re done.

“I am. Someone sold my apartment and got rid of most of my things.” My body felt tired and anxiously buzzed with too much caffeine. I hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep since I’d left the manor last week.

“Watch your tone, Eliza,” she snapped.

I hated my name. I hated hearing her say it like that. I hated that she had chosen it for me. I hated it.

Normally, that would’ve been all it took. I would have given up, no matter how badly I wanted or needed whatever it might have been. Her words sounded like words to others, but to me, they felt like chains thrashing across the soft spots of my insides. Her cold eyes homed in on mine like a pissed-off viper as she sat across from me at the concrete-topped table in her small kitchen.

I shrank in on myself reflexively, only to press out again, reminding myself why I was here. If my time at Blackwood Manor had taught me anything, it was that if I could handle shit—like falling in love with a charming, lying murderer while working twelve-hour days next to the buried bones of a ghost who had asked me to help solve her murder—I could set limits with my own mother.

She pushed on. “I sent your flight information over last night. You need to spend some time in nature. I’ve volunteered you for a trip to the rainforest with EcoSphere. It’ll be good for you.” My mother’s thin lips pressed together, forming a straight line. “What is that shirt? Let me read the label,” she said, standing up to tug at my clothes.

I lightly and very carefully swatted her away. “Enough, Mom. I’m twenty-five years old and can wear whatever I want.” I tried to sound strong. I’d spent the last two nights researching how to speak with command and authority, but my voice trembled regardless.

Her gaze darkened, the muscles of her mouth pursing together in irritation. “You’ve been talking to Lucy. There’s no one else you’d have gotten this backtalk from but that sister of yours.”

She was right. Since I left the manor, I had been speaking with Lucy. I had reached out, feeling lost and alone and needing someone who knew what my mother was like. She had been receptive and even happy to reconnect. There were lots of tears and regrets shared. Talking to her gave me the backbone of support necessary to set these boundaries.

“I actually have.”

Her tired-looking eyes widened for a second. “Great, so you’re going to turn away from me?” she shouted suddenly. “Go to another country to get away?” Her worn, veiny hands grabbed the back of the kitchen chair for balance.

“Mom, you have to know that not everything is that big of a deal. The fertilizer or soil I use is not a reason to get mad at me and freak out,” I tried to reason.

Her chair screeched loudly against the kitchen floor. She turned her back to me, nothing new; I frequently made her so angry she “couldn’t look at me.” I noticed a small shake to her shoulder. She was crying. Again, nothing new, except for the fact that for seemingly the first time ever, it seemed like she didn’t want me to see it.

“Mom?” I prepared for her to whip around and start screaming at me like normal.

She left the kitchen slowly and silently.

I didn’t know what to do. Nothing like this had ever happened—nothing like this entire interaction had ever happened between us. This was different.

Apprehensively, I moved down the hallway to her bedroom. The door was open.

“Mom, I—” My words fell flat when I realized she was sitting on the edge of her bed with a small wooden box open, a photo in one hand. Silent tears streamed down her face.

She wasn’t faking. Something out of the ordinary was happening.

“Fertilizer doesn’t matter,” she mumbled almost to herself with a blubbering sob.