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“Yes, she is,” Sara said. “And Charlene?”
“That took some time to get Tayla to tell about her. I’m sorry I didn’t come forward at first but Tayla swore that you three would find out the truth. When they arrested her, I wanted it stopped, but Tayla said no. Janet had to be exposed, and she knew that if she was being arrested for the crime, you three wouldn’t stop until you found the truth.”
“But she told us to stay out of it!” Kate said. “She talked about great evil.”
Carl nodded. “Tayla was willing to take the blame, but she also wanted the truth about Janet exposed. She told you to do what was right, but she knew—prayed—that you’d keep looking. She told me that you three were the only ones who could protect Charlene and Gil.”
“She trusted us that much?” Kate asked.
He looked at Sara. “She said she owes you in a very big way and that maybe this would help you forgive her.”
They all looked at Sara but she made no reply.
“What about Chet?” Jack asked.
All the energy seemed to leave Carl. “I am sorry for that. Very, very sorry.”
“He would have exposed Charlene,” Sara said. “You killed him to stop that from happening.”
“Yes.” Carl was squeezing his eyes shut and there were tears coming out.
“His death was declared an accident,” Jack said. “There isn’t going to be an investigation.”
Carl nodded but he didn’t speak.
Sara stood up. “I think we better go.”
Carl whispered, “I just wanted a family. My wife and I wanted children so very much. A family. That’s all I wanted in my entire life. But I didn’t get it.”
There was nothing they could reply to that, so they left the hospital room without another word. Outside, Sara said, “And Chet won’t see his grandchildren.”
“Nothing but pain because one woman wanted to win,” Kate said.
“Come on, let’s go home,” Jack said. “This is done.”
* * *
It was a week later that Sara was in her little library, computer on her lap, and going over what she’d written for Sylvia’s book.
The book stopped right after Lisa left, and it told how happy Sylvia was that the misery she’d been enduring would soon be over. When her daughter’s divorce was final, they could leave. Sylvia wrote of all she’d done to prepare for their escape. She’d transferred every photo she had of her life with her husband and daughter onto a single three-terabyte hard drive. She’d secretly mailed it and several sentimental items to a friend who lived in Boston, someone Janet didn’t know about. Sylvia put a couple of packed suitcases in a storage locker, along with two open-ended plane tickets to London. Her passport and five grand cash were in her bag. She would be able to walk out the door with nothing in her hand and leave the country.
What wasn’t in the book was the night Janet cooked spicy enchiladas and served them to Sylvia. She ate them and drank most of a bottle of red wine. Considering what Janet usually “allowed” her, Sylvia must have thought it was a treat.
She’d had no idea that Janet overheard her plans of escape. It was difficult for Sara to make up what she needed to finish the story. It was tough putting herself into Sylvia’s place and imagining what she must have felt when she realized that Janet had poisoned her. Surely, Janet told Sylvia that Lisa had turned herself in to the police. Sara wrote of Janet’s delight in telling Sylvia that all she’d gone through had been for nothing.
Janet had the suicide note ready for Sylvia to sign. If she didn’t sign it, Janet said she’d persecute Lisa forever. So of course Sylvia signed. She died pleading, not for herself, but for her daughter.
Sara could have ended the book there, but she wanted to add the rest of it. The readers deserved to hear about some form of justice in the end. For that, Sara needed the details of the actual murder of Janet Beeson—and those could only come from Carl. When she went alone to visit him in the hospital, she took a notebook with her. His strength was failing rapidly but he smiled at the sight of her, and said yes, he’d be glad to tell her everything.
“But I’ve never been a good storyteller,” he said.
“That’s okay. How about if I ask you questions?” He nodded and she started. “What would you most like people to know about that day?”
“That it was an accident,” Carl said.
“How could it have been an accident if you arrived with a gun?”
“I only meant to use it if I needed to defend myself. Maybe I shouldn’t have been concerned about my own death, certainly not when you consider the circumstances, but...” He didn’t seem to know how to finish.
