Her Last Breath

by Hilary Davidson

  “Our mother was already dead,” I said.

  “On some level, I think I knew she was gone, but I clung to anything that let me pretend she was alive,” Juliet said.

  “What else do you remember?”

  “I know Ursula went away for a long time, and I was so glad—you know how much I always hated her—but then she came back, and they got married. In my mind, she was the wicked witch who got rid of my mother.”

  “Father’s the one we should blame. He killed our mother.”

  Juliet perched on the edge of the bed. “How can you be sure? You weren’t even four when all of this happened.”

  “You don’t have to trust my memory,” I said. “Ursula’s been dropping hints that she can’t live with herself. I believe she knows most of what happened. The question is if we can get her to admit it.”

  Then I told her everything.

  CHAPTER 52

  THEO

  When I got out of the hospital a week after I went in, I returned to the cursed house my father had bought as a present for a doomed marriage. But I also quietly made the preparations I needed to. It wouldn’t do to make a move until I was ready.

  By the time I came home, Ursula had been moved from a mental hospital—to ensure she didn’t attempt to kill herself again—to an alcohol-detox facility upstate. She wept when I drove up to see her. “I’m so sorry. I thought I was helping Teddy,” she said. “That was all I cared about.”

  “I know you did,” I told her. “And you still can. You told me Caroline wanted you to reveal the truth. I need you to do that.”

  “I don’t know if I can. I did awful things, Theo . . .”

  “I have faith in you,” I told her. “So did Caroline.”

  When my stepmother finished her weeklong program, she opted to stay with Teddy and me, telling my father she didn’t feel ready to talk quite yet. She asked him to come over late on a Thursday afternoon.

  When my father arrived, he clapped me on the back, as if he hadn’t spent my entire life gaslighting me. “You’re looking well, son.” He grinned at me, and I attempted to smile back.

  “Come sit in the parlor, Father. I can’t even remember when you last visited. What can I offer you to drink?”

  “Something celebratory. Sancerre—or even champagne,” he answered.

  “Ursula just got out of her detox program,” I said. “Do you really think that’s a good idea?”

  “Let’s be realistic,” he said. “She’ll never be able to stop drinking. Why pretend?”

  “It’s strange how you like to say what’s past is past, and yet you think people should be trapped by their history,” I said. “I believe people are capable of far greater change than you realize.”

  He shrugged. “You’re setting yourself up for disappointment, son.”

  “Perhaps,” I said. “Perhaps not.”

  There were footsteps behind me.

  “I heard a request for sparkling,” Juliet said. “Theo has a fine assortment of imported waters. Shall I pour you a glass?”

  “I’m not keeping alcohol in the house these days,” I explained.

  It took our father a moment to recover. “Well, I am surprised to see you here, Juliet.”

  “Why? My brother and I have been discussing history lately. It’s a subject we both enjoy.”

  “I know,” our father answered casually. “But it seems like just the other day you were telling me you wished your brother had died instead of Caroline.”

  His basilisk eyes stayed on hers. Juliet faltered, freezing in place. Divide and conquer. That had always been our father’s strategy. He controlled the two of us by fueling our long-standing rivalry.

  “I wouldn’t blame Juliet for that,” I said. “I’ve wished the same thing myself.”

  My sister glanced at me, amused and maybe even slightly relieved. It seemed to propel her forward. “What’s that saying of yours, Father? ‘A liar has to have a perfect memory.’ Yours is impressively sharp.”

  “I can recall my Shakespeare, at least. ‘How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child.’ Or, in my case, two thankless children. After everything I’ve done for the pair of you, this is how you repay me?”

  “Don’t even start,” Juliet said. “I’ve devoted my life to running your company. I’ve done everything you ever asked of me. You owe me answers. You owe us both.”

  “Haven’t you told me, time and time again, Juliet, that I owe your brother nothing? That I ought to cast him out on the street because he’s worthless?” It was clear that our father saw my sister as the weak link, the one who would crack under pressure. I’d spent years defying him; Juliet had always been eager to please him. If he could, he would twist her loyalty back to him and break her with it.

  “I’ve deserved to be called worthless,” I said.

  “Believe me, he has called you far worse than that,” Ursula said from the doorway. Her voice was cool and crisp. She was simply dressed in a white shirt and trousers, but her eyes were brighter than I’d ever seen them. “He called you a killer. He made all of us believe it.”

  “Was this your plan? The three of you ganging up on me? Because I don’t have time for this shit.” My father got to his feet. “I’m also giving you notice to vacate this house, Theo. I own it. You’re just a tenant. You can live on the street for all I care.”

  “You don’t want to leave just yet,” I said. “You’ll want to hear our exciting news about the family business.”

  “What news?”

  “I’ve decided to return to Thraxton International.”

  He peered at me as if I were a curious artifact he couldn’t decide was real or counterfeit. “Are you serious? You want to work with me?”

  “Definitely not. I’ll be working for Juliet.” I glanced her way. “What’s my title again?”

  “Senior vice president of global operations, ethics, and compliance,” Juliet announced grandly.

  “Is this some kind of joke?” Our father’s head swiveled to look back and forth between us.

  “Theo and I agree that a nicely downsized hotel business is the way of the future,” Juliet said. “Our future, at least. No money laundering. No crime-ing at all. Can you even imagine it? Don’t answer that, Father, because I know you can’t.”

  “You think you can quit?”

  “We’re not quitting anything,” Juliet said. “We’re firing you.”

  He broke out in laughter. “You two are incredible,” he said finally. “You barely have a penny to your names. How are you going to take the business away from me?”

  “Because you’ll be in jail,” Juliet said.

  He shook his head. “If I go to jail, honey, you go to jail. There’s no way to implicate me in any crime without implicating yourself. Theo might be able to wriggle off the hook, but the name Juliet Thraxton is on documents from here to Moscow.”

  “Actually, Theodore,” Ursula said, “Juliet is quite safe. You’re the one who’ll go to jail for murder.”

  My father blinked at his wife, suddenly uncertain about how much the ground was shifting under his feet. “Murder?” He glanced at me. “Sorry, Theo, but you don’t have a shred of evidence about Mirelle. None of you have anything you can prove. Klaus would never testify against me. I’ve always kept my hands clean. The men who work for me are well paid for their silence.”

  “That doesn’t matter anymore,” Juliet said. “We have Mother’s body.”

  “You have no such thing.” My father was eerily confident, as certain as if he’d buried her himself. For all I knew, he had.

  “Pardon me—what I meant to say is that we have Mother’s body double,” Juliet said.

  My father’s face was ashen as he turned to look at Ursula. “You wouldn’t.”

  “I did what you ordered me to do,” Ursula said. “I flew to New York, dyed my hair black, and packed a couple of suitcases full of your dead wife’s clothes. Then I flew to Guam and hid in a hotel there for three months so you c
ould have an easy divorce that stayed out of the spotlight. A fake divorce, which seemed appropriate for a man who is such a fraud in every aspect of his life.”

  I was watching out the window for the NYPD, and two vehicles pulled up at the time we’d agreed. “Look, it’s the police,” I said. “This part will be amusing.”

  My father’s head swiveled. “They can’t arrest me. They don’t have a warrant. They don’t have jurisdiction. They don’t have—”

  “Shhh,” I said. “It’s not your turn. Yet.”

  We watched in silence as they banged on the door of my father’s house and poured inside. They knew Harris was ex-military and had guns, which made him a serious threat. But his takedown was surprisingly peaceful. He exited with his hands cuffed behind his back, his bald head bowed low.

  “What are they arresting him for?” my father cried. “He had nothing to do with your mother! He didn’t even work for me then!”

  I thought about telling him that the case of Mirelle’s death had never been closed by the Berlin police and that Mehmet Badem had confessed to his part in a sworn statement. I had no doubt that Harris had committed no end of illegal acts on my father’s behalf and that he would never see justice for most of them. But he would be spending his upcoming years in a jail cell, and that was important. I would’ve worried about Ursula’s safety if Harris were free.

  My father looked shell-shocked when he turned away from the window. “You can’t do this.”

  “Your reckoning has been long overdue,” Juliet said.

  “None of you would have anything without me!” My father’s face twisted like a gargoyle’s as he shouted in impotent rage.

  “You really need to sign these papers.” Juliet opened a large leather attaché case on the table. “Hugo Laraya was kind enough to draw them up for us. You’ll be signing over the company and the various properties you own.”

  “Why would I do that?” my father demanded, eyes bulging. “You can all go to hell.”

  I looked out the window. One of the NYPD vehicles had ferried Harris away, but the other was still there.

  “You can sign now, before Interpol arrives,” I said. “Or you can wait until all your stolen property has been seized by the government. This isn’t even about the money laundering. Yet.”

  “What are you doing? You’re pulling apart everything I ever built.”

  Juliet tossed the papers at him. I handed him a pen.

  I am full of hidden horrors. My mother’s voice ran through my head. I could forgive her—if anything, I empathized with her torment—but I could never forgive him. The horrors belonged to him. As he finally realized his empire was collapsing, his eyes filled with tears. It was the only time I ever saw my father cry.

  CHAPTER 53

  DEIRDRE

  Two weeks after Theo got out of the hospital, Reagan’s mother decided to host a family dinner. For as long as I’d known Mrs. Chen, her response to any situation, happy or sad, was to cook. “It’s her primary way of expressing affection,” Reagan told me. “She might criticize what you’re wearing, what you’re doing, and every choice you make, but if she makes roast duck, that means she loves you.”

  Mrs. Chen went all out, cooking for two days straight and shooing me out of the kitchen when I dropped by to help.

  “Start one little kitchen fire and no one trusts you anymore,” I grumbled.

  “If it was only one, it would be okay,” she answered. “You’re too good at breaking things.”

  Dinner was set for six o’clock on Friday, which was as early as Reagan could get home from work. Teddy and Gloria got there early. “It smells SO GOOD,” he said when he skipped into the house, endearing himself forever to Mrs. Chen. She let him into the kitchen, putting him to work as her official taster.

  “He’s been excited about this for days,” Gloria told Mrs. Chen.

  At five thirty, the bell rang. My father was on the doorstep, clutching a bouquet of orange lilies and a big bag from Joe’s Sicilian Bakery in Bayside. I’d invited him on impulse. His words about regrets had been circling in my head. I wasn’t ready to forgive him. I wasn’t sure I ever could. But I was open to finding out how much he’d really changed. More than that, I took Caro’s last words seriously—she wanted both of us to be deeply involved in raising Teddy, and that meant I couldn’t shut him out of my life.

  He seemed suitably uncomfortable.

  “You look like you’re trying to impress,” I told him at the door.

  “Caro gave me this blazer,” he answered. “Does it look ridiculous?”

  “I meant the bag from the bakery. The jacket’s fine. Theo probably has the same one. Maybe he’ll wear it tonight.”

  It was strange being in the same room as my father. For years, he’d loomed large in my imagination. In person, he had a shy curiosity and awkwardness, like a penguin who’d been let out of the zoo on a day pass. Jude came in, and he relaxed a little. Then he pulled me aside and handed me a paper bag, first pulling out a small, shiny box. “This is yours,” he said.

  Inside was my mother’s gold locket, all delicate Celtic scrollwork dangling from a gleaming chain. I cracked it open. Inside was a photograph of my family, taken when I was eight.

  I had a lump in my throat the size of the Empire State Building.

  “There are some other things in there,” he added. “But I know you loved that locket. I’ve been meaning to give it to you. Caro refused to do it—she said I had to give it to you myself. I asked Jude to do it at the funeral. I’m sorry I held on to it for so long.”

  I nodded. “I appreciate it.”

  He patted me on the shoulder. “Don’t get all snuffly.”

  “I was admiring the brown paper bag. So classy.”

  “You always had such a mouth on you,” he said. It wasn’t entirely without admiration.

  “Pot, meet kettle,” I told him.

  “I found something else too,” he said. “It came up while the cops were investigating. I talked to someone at that Egyptian company.”

  “Osiris’s Vault? They’re not Egyptian; they’re in the Bronx.”

  “Whatever.” He handed me an envelope. “For you to read whenever you’re ready.”

  I went out for a walk, curious but apprehensive. When I’d braced myself, I opened it up. The first page said:

  Deirdre,

  I’m terrible at emotional conversations (like everyone in our family) so I wanted to put some thoughts down in case I never get to say them in person. I keep thinking of Mom, and of how things were when we were growing up. I’ve always regretted that we lost touch for a few years, and I wish

  The letter stopped there. I turned the page, but it was blank. For a minute, I was confused, until I remembered the day I’d stormed into Osiris’s Vault. The one employee who’d helped me had mentioned that there were earlier versions of Caro’s message to me. That was what I was holding: her earlier drafts. My hands shook as I scanned the next one.

  Deirdre,

  I keep thinking of Mom, and how you never believe you’re going to end up like one of your parents, until you do. For so long I’ve wanted to talk to you honestly about our lives growing up, but I can’t seem to do it in person. I used to be angry at you for doing what you did. But the truth is I’m angry at myself for doing nothing. I don’t think I ever told you how much I admire you.

  Like the first one, it stopped suddenly. The last one was very short.

  Dodo,

  You are a kind of a monster who kicks everyone’s ass, but I love you anyway.

  I read each one over again and again. It was a strange gift, seeing my sister’s words—and hearing her voice in my head—after she was gone. Caro had never finished exactly what she’d wanted to say, but I knew her well enough to get the gist of it. I circled the block, dried my eyes, and went back to the house to be with our family.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I’ve said before that writing a novel is a solitary adventure, but that was especially true in lockdo
wn and quarantine. I signed the contract for this book in November 2019, but by the time I turned it in, in June 2020, the whole world looked a lot different. For all the friends, family, and colleagues who made pandemic life bearable, I am eternally grateful.

  I want to give my heartfelt thanks to everyone on the Thomas & Mercer team for making the publication of this book such a joy. That’s especially true of my wonderful editor, Megha Parekh, who got incredibly excited when I first told her about my idea for this book; she has been a tireless champion for it ever since. Thank you to my developmental editor, Charlotte Herscher, who always asks smart questions that help me find deeper possibilities in the story. I’m grateful to editorial director Gracie Doyle for her incredible support, and to author relations manager Sarah Shaw for brightening my day whenever we interact. Thank you to my copyeditor, Susan Stokes, for fixing my (many) mistakes, and to my proofreader, Bill Siever, for his amazing attention to detail. Thanks, too, to the exceptional marketing team, especially Gabrielle Guarnero, Kyla Pigoni, Erin Mooney, and Lindsey Bragg, for their dedication and help, and to publicity manager Dennelle Catlett and publicist Brittany Russell for all their work to promote this book. There are so many amazing people who worked behind the scenes to get this novel into your hands, including production manager Laura Barrett, cover designer Lindy Martin, and art director Oisin O’Malley. I know I’m missing a few names here, and I apologize for that. The truth is that working with everyone on the Amazon Publishing team has been a privilege and a pleasure.

  I also want to thank my agent, Mitch Hoffman, who has read this book more times than any other human and is the world’s best sounding board for ideas. I’m grateful for his wisdom, enthusiasm, and friendship. I also appreciate the support of the entire team at the Aaron M. Priest Literary Agency.

  My entire extended crime-fiction family deserves thanks, but a few people deserve special shout-outs (in alphabetical order): Megan Abbott, Ed Aymar, Nancie Clare, Angel Luis Colón, Libby Cudmore, Matthew Farrell, Kim Fay, Lee Goldberg, Rachel Howzell Hall, Jennifer Hillier, Chris Holm and Kat Niidas Holm, Susan Elia MacNeal, Brad Parks, Gavin Reese, Joe Reid, Hank Phillippi Ryan, Alex Segura, Sarah Weinman, and Holly West. I couldn’t imagine a greater group of shady characters, and I’m lucky to know each one of you.