The sound cracked across the garden.
Flynn stood frozen.
Then Cordelia turned toward me.
“This is your fault.”
There it was.
The sentence people like Cordelia always reached eventually.
Nothing was ever theirs.
Not guilt.
Not cruelty.
Not consequences.
“This is your fault!”
She came toward me.
Phoebe stepped between us.
Cordelia stopped.
I looked at her.
“You pushed me down a staircase.”
“You were holding what belonged to me.”
“The pendant belonged to my grandmother.”
“The evidence belonged to me!”
Silence.
Pure, stunned silence.
Cordelia realized what she had said.
Henry closed his eyes.
Phoebe didn’t move.
Flynn whispered, “Evidence of what?”
Cordelia’s mouth opened.
Nothing came.
Then a new voice spoke behind us.
“Evidence of murder.”
Everything stopped.
Even Cordelia.
I turned.
A woman was standing near the conservatory doors.
Mid-fifties.
Silver-blond hair.
Dark coat.
Thin face.
Familiar eyes.
I had seen those eyes in photographs.
