Nathaniel steps out of the staff kitchen and walks away to open the front door. I follow after him.
When the door swings open, police officers are standing on the front step.
“Nathaniel Rosewood?” One of them asks.
“Yes,” he says, then tilts his head slightly toward me.
“You are under arrest on suspicion of the murders of Helena and Lilibeth Rosewood,” the officer says before turning him around and locking cuffs around his wrists.
My legs move. I rush to the door, shouting after him, but they take him anyway. Dasha and Victor come running at the sound of the commotion, and we are all left standing there in shock.
One of the officers stays behind and steps inside. Judging by the look on Dasha’s face, he’s the friend she told me about.
“What happened?” I ask.
He turns to the door, closes it quietly, then faces us.
“After Dasha gave me the bones suspected to be Daniel Grant’s, I had them examined. They found traces of poisoning, and it was confirmed they belonged to Lilibeth Rosewood.”
It’s all my fault. This is all my fault.
“The detectives found more evidence that led back to him. For now, he is only a suspect.”
“He wasn’t even in the house,” Victor shouts from the back.
“Unfortunately, there is no one who can confirm that,” he says.
“I can,” I say quickly. “I have Lilibeth’s diary in the bedroom. She wrote everything down. They had a good relationship.”
“Okay,” he says. “I’ll take it as evidence.”
I rush upstairs to the right wing, searching for the diary I left on the nightstand. It’s still there, exactly where I left it. Nathaniel didn’t even bother to read the pages.
I grab it and hurry back downstairs, placing it into the officer’s hands.
“We’ll get back to you,” he says, taking it from me before walking out the door.
I look at Dasha, my hands shaking. “It’s all my fault.”
If I had trusted him, if I had waited just a little longer, we wouldn’t be here. But I didn’t think. I didn’t think at all.
Dasha comes to me. Victor and Margaret follow, and together we move to the lobby near the fireplace. Victor kneels by the heat and feeds dry wood into the fire. Flames catch slowly, licking through the logs, filling the room with a low crackle.
I sink into the chair while the others stay quiet.
The house is finally full of life again, yet somehow, sitting here with all of them, it still feels like something inside us has already died.
Hours have passed, and Margaret is the first to leave. She wants to come back early in the morning, in case Mr. Rosewood returns. Masha leaves second. She has to go back to New York, and she says goodbye to Dasha while Victor and I remain seated on the sofa near the fireplace.
“Miss Vale,” he asks, “how much do you remember?”
I tilt my head toward him, trying to fit the pieces together, but nothing comes.
“Just bits and pieces,” I say.
His hand scratches at his beard. “Do you remember visiting that night, when Lilibeth and Helena died?”
I swallow and shake my head. “No,” I say. “Why would I even be here?”
