Her Last Breath

by Hilary Davidson

  Theo killed his first wife and got away with it.

  This was the one part of Caro’s message that made me question whether it was real. What first wife? Theo hadn’t been married before. Back when he and Caro were dating, I’d vetted him online. You couldn’t hide a secret like that. Could you?

  I turned every photo over again, reading Caro’s notes. There was nothing about Theo’s first wife. I grabbed my laptop, tried the file link from Osiris’s Vault again, and came up empty. I inserted the memory card. There were 1,702 files on it. I clicked on the first few. A photo of Theo finally popped up; in it, he was standing over his father and son in front of a towering Christmas tree. His arms were crossed and his expression was inscrutable as he watched his father and son playing with a model train. They looked like they were having a good time; Theo did not.

  Bring him to justice, no matter what you have to do.

  I clicked through the first fifty files. Seeing so many photos of my sister in happier times brought tears to my eyes. Maybe there was a photo of Theo and his first wife, but I wasn’t ready to deal with so much of my own family history to find it just then. I ejected the memory card and returned it to its plastic case. My screen switched to an article about my sister. I didn’t know why I hadn’t closed it. I noticed for the first time that the byline belonged to Abby Morel, the sparkling monster I’d encountered in front of the church.

  The death of Caroline Thraxton has stunned New York. The former journalist turned socialite died during an early-morning run near the United Nations headquarters on First Avenue.

  The facts of the case are still being established by the police. They believe Caroline Thraxton suffered cardiac arrest from an undisclosed heart condition at approximately six a.m. She fell on the Sharansky Steps above Ralph Bunche Park, injuring her head and arm. She was unconscious but still breathing when discovered by passersby but died en route to Tisch Hospital and was pronounced dead on arrival.

  When asked whether drugs or foul play was involved in this sudden, shocking death—Mrs. Thraxton was a month shy of her 30th birthday—NYPD detective Luis Villaverde dismissed the idea. He called the incident an “unlucky accident,” adding that the socialite was caught on multiple security cameras during her run and there was nothing suspicious. “Plenty of folks have heart conditions they don’t know about,” he added. Detective Villaverde refused to answer questions about any possible drug use by the victim.

  Mrs. Thraxton was the wife of Theodore Thraxton II, heir to the Thraxton International hotel fortune. Caroline Thraxton was employed by the company as their director of public relations. Mr. Thraxton could not be reached for comment, but his sister, Juliet Thraxton, released a statement to the press on behalf of the family.

  “We are devastated by Caroline’s death,” the statement says. “It is a tremendous shock to us all. We can’t believe she’s gone.”

  Caroline Thraxton is survived by her husband and her three-year-old son, Theodore Thraxton III, known to the family as Teddy.

  My head buzzed and blood drummed inside my ears. It was like being a kid again, listening to the awful fighting going on in the next room, knowing I was powerless to fix it. There was a sharp pain in my chest, and I hunched over on the futon, hugging my knees, but that didn’t help.

  “You’re not powerless,” I reminded myself out loud. “You can’t save your sister, but you can get justice for her. This is all on you.”

  That determination propelled me forward. I brushed my teeth and fixed my makeup, feeling like a warrior readying for combat. I needed a tough shell if I was going to do what I had to for my sister. I flipped through the prints one more time.

  “Damn it, Caro, couldn’t you have given me something solid, like the name of the first wife?” I muttered.

  I tucked the photos and memory card back into the envelope. Then I pulled on a pair of tall black leather boots. I had one shot to round up some real evidence, and I wasn’t going to miss it.

  CHAPTER 4

  THEO

  I don’t want to be married to you anymore. Why is that so hard to understand, Theo? Get out of my house.

  When I stepped inside the church, I was surrounded by people, but all I could hear was my wife’s voice taunting me. Guests came up in turn, telling me how sorry they were. None of them were as sorry as I was.

  It was impossible to believe that a little over a week earlier, I’d been in Bangkok, meeting with government officials and representatives from Thailand’s national museum about how to recover stolen artifacts. It had been oppressively hot and humid, to the point where the air seemed to shimmer at midday. I attempted to focus my mind in that direction.

  It wasn’t enough to stop my heart from thudding a fatal drumbeat.

  Get out of my house.

  Those were the last words Caroline said to me before she died.

  All I wanted was to steel myself to deliver her eulogy. I ducked into a tiny alcove at the back of the church for a few moments of quiet. Instead, I found my father and sister, chatting away like magpies.

  “You have to admit it’s an impressive turnout,” my father said. “I haven’t seen this many people inside one building since the pandemic hit. Caroline was truly adored, wasn’t she?”

  “They’re expecting a show, and they love a free lunch,” Juliet answered drily. “Half of them don’t know who Caroline was. The rest want to see what she looks like in the casket.”

  “Your jealousy is showing again,” my father replied. “It’s downright ugly, Juliet.”

  “Am I supposed to pretend I’m sorry she’s dead?”

  That was the moment they noticed me. My father was the first to recover.

  “Theo. How are you holding up, son? You look exhausted. Are you sure you’re up to delivering the eulogy? You don’t have to, you know. I would be honored to speak about Caroline.”

  “I don’t need your help.” I was dreading the eulogy, but I’d be damned if anyone else delivered it.

  “There it is, the old Thraxton charm,” Juliet said. “Sweet as a viper and twice as deadly. What a lady-killer.”

  My sister was four years older than I was, and we despised each other. I felt bad about snapping at my father, because my sister was the one who deserved it.

  “You look ridiculous,” I said. “Thanks for providing the comic relief at a funeral.”

  It wasn’t much, but Juliet was sensitive about any comment on her appearance. She flinched.

  “Stop it, both of you,” my father whispered, as if we were still children.

  “Someone should greet the guests, instead of hiding back here,” Juliet said. “I guess I’m stuck doing all the work, as usual.” She strutted off, without a backward glance.

  “I know it’s a heartbreaking day for you, son.” My father waved one hand, carelessly gesturing at the church. “I tried to make it something Caroline would’ve enjoyed. The flowers. The music.” He stared at the scene in front of us as if in a trance. “White roses and Mozart. She loved his Requiem.” He chuckled softly. “Remember when she said she wished you could use it for your wedding? She thought it was romantic.”

  Caroline and I loved not only the music but also the legend of the anonymous man who commissioned the Requiem and the composer who’d attempted to steal it after Mozart’s death. When we met, I discovered that underneath Caroline’s sunny exterior beat a heart that loved all things dark and gothic. That wasn’t anything I wanted to share with my father. “Thank you. I couldn’t have managed it myself.”

  “Of course.” My father’s smile dimmed. “Did you tell the nanny she could sit in the family pew?”

  “Yes. Teddy is closer to Gloria than he is to just about anyone else.”

  “It’s bad optics, Theo. Imagine a reporter getting a photo of Teddy being comforted by the help during the service. That doesn’t look good for any of us.”

  “You can’t imagine how little I care about optics,” I said.

  “Well, I do. Why couldn’t you leave Tedd
y with your sister?”

  “I wouldn’t entrust a tadpole to Juliet’s care.”

  “That’s not fair. She’s great with animals.” He grinned at me, as if he’d made a terrific joke.

  “Where’s Ursula?” I asked. Ursula was my stepmother, and the only person in my family whose company I enjoyed, even though I was well aware that her pleasant temperament was managed by a steady supply of wine and vodka.

  “She had a little accident this morning,” my father said.

  “What happened?”

  “She fell and hurt her wrist. Harris took her to the doctor in case it’s fractured.”

  Harris was my father’s assistant and bodyguard, all rolled up in one grim package. “She was drunk?”

  My father glanced around, in case a pair of ears was too close, and nodded.

  “I understand if you want to leave here to see her,” I said.

  “And reward her little stunt by missing Caroline’s funeral?” My father shook his head. “Look at all these people. The biggest funeral our family ever had was my father’s. But we didn’t have all of these fine-feathered friends turning up for it. He was well off, but people looked down on him. The Motel King. This is like something you see on TV.”

  “Don’t talk about Caroline’s funeral as if it were a social occasion.”

  “A funeral is a social event. People loved Caroline. Some of those nasty little basement bloggers called her a ‘climbing vine,’ given her roots, but Caroline was a genuinely good person. She was kind and generous. Pair those traits up with money, and you have a recipe for social success. Even if her family came with more baggage than a Boeing Triple Seven bound for Disney World.” He grimaced. “I should’ve sent Harris out to buy her father a suit. Did you see that shiny getup he’s wearing? Looks like he made it out of a space blanket. I’d worry about photos, but the glare would blind anyone. Is he coming to lunch?”

  “You will be respectful toward Caroline’s family,” I insisted, but my brain was stuck on something else he’d said. Caroline was a genuinely good person.

  “I’ve never been anything but kind to Caroline’s relatives, son.” He frowned and walked away from me, shaking his head.

  I don’t want to be married to you anymore. Why is that so hard to understand, Theo? Get out of my house.

  I hovered at the edge of the alcove, refusing to let my brain revisit what had happened next. It was impossible to get enough air into my lungs.

  “Is it time?” the priest asked me.

  “I need a few moments alone,” I said. “Is there somewhere private?”

  “Of course. Follow me.” He led me through a small portal, then opened a door, revealing a private chapel. There were candles burning in front of a statue of a beautiful woman whose face was clouded with sorrow.

  “Take your time,” the priest added.

  “Thank you.”

  He shut the door behind me. I stood stock still, waiting for the panic to subside. My body shuddered as if I’d walked into a freezer. How could I go through with the funeral, or anything else? This day would be endless, just as the day before had been, and the next one would be. I didn’t know how I would ever explain Caroline’s death to our son.

  Caroline was a genuinely good person, my father claimed. No, she wasn’t. She’d put up an amazing facade that fooled many people, but underneath was something hard and steely and vicious.

  The quivering in my hands reverberated through my body. I approached the shrine, then collapsed on my knees—as if in prayer—but I had no words for a higher power. I hadn’t been raised with any religion, and I wasn’t even sure whom the statue represented. The Virgin Mary? Some dolorous saint with her eyes fixed on the next world because this one was too painful to bear? Instead, I gazed at the dozens of flickering candles, glimmering like beacons in a storm.

  I am full of hidden horrors, whispered a voice in the back of my mind. That wasn’t Caroline; this voice was in my head long before I met her.

  There was nothing I wouldn’t do to drown it out.

  Stretching out my left hand, I set my palm atop a candle. As my flesh extinguished its flame, I felt a rush of pain that brought tears to my eyes. Its razor sharpness was fleeting, but the hot, throbbing sensation that came in its wake focused my thoughts in one clear, untroubled direction. I reached for another flame, and another, telling myself to stop but not being able to. When all the candles were out, and the air was singed with smoke and the oddly sweet smell of grease, I rose, nodding my head at the marble woman in a muted show of thanks. Then I made my exit, finally ready to deliver my wife’s eulogy.

  CHAPTER 5

  DEIRDRE

  I took a few diaphragm breaths before making the call. When my brother-in-law answered, I said, “Hey, Theo, this is Deirdre. Could you pick me up on your way to the cemetery?” The words made me queasy. I hated asking for favors. Any dummy could’ve hopped in a cab and made it to Green-Wood, but it was the only way I could think of to get time alone with Theo to talk.

  “I just left the restaurant, but there’s a car waiting there for you,” Theo said. “I’ll find out exactly where it is.”

  “I didn’t go to lunch. I came home. Could you pick me up at Queens Plaza?”

  “What happened? Are you ill?”

  “I’m fine, Theo. I just need you to pick me up.” This wasn’t for me. It was for Caro. “I need to talk to you.”

  “Hold on.” I heard a soft conversation in the background. “We’ll head over the Queensboro Bridge. I’ll text you when we’re close to Queens Plaza.”

  He was good to his word. When he showed up, I leaped into the black town car. “Thanks for doing this,” I muttered.

  “Are you certain you’re all right?” Theo asked. He looked genuinely worried. I recoiled under his gaze.

  “No,” I admitted. “The whole world feels like it’s broken. I keep hoping this is a nightmare, and maybe I’ll wake up. I still can’t believe she’s gone.”

  “Neither can I,” Theo said. “I didn’t sleep at all last night.”

  In the church, at a distance, my brother-in-law had looked like his usual self: impeccably dressed, ramrod posture, coldly attractive. Up close, he was worn out. There were purplish half-moons under his eyes, and his skin seemed sallow. His mouth was set in a firm line, and his jaw was so taut I could almost hear him grinding his teeth. My gaze slid down to his hands. One palm was raw and red and blistered.

  “What the hell happened to your hand?” I asked.

  He froze for a nanosecond before turning it over, out of view. “It must’ve happened when I hit that creep bothering Teddy.”

  In that moment, I knew Theo was lying to me. His knuckles were a little dinged up, but that didn’t explain the scarlet wound on his palm. There was an uncomfortable moment when I couldn’t help but stare, examining an old scar slithering under his French cuff. I could only catch the edge of it, but it was enough to remind me of the profile my sister had written about him. That was how they’d met in the first place. The article had a weird little anecdote in it about how Theo had been mauled by a zoo animal—a lion or a tiger—as a child. I made a mental note to look it up as soon as I could.

  In the meantime, I had questions, but I didn’t know where to start. “That was a good service this morning,” I ventured.

  “Really?” He frowned. “You thought so?”

  “No, I hated it. But Caro would’ve appreciated it.”

  Theo sighed. “That was what my father thought. He planned every last detail.”

  “How was lunch?”

  “It was like a circle of Dante’s hell but with worse company. My father arranged for religieuses au chocolat for dessert,” he said, referring to a tiered eclair that I couldn’t imagine anyone but Caro liking. “Caroline’s favorite. It was horrible.”

  “I’m glad I skipped it.”

  “It was surreal to sit there and watch a roomful of people having a wonderful time. This was just another party for them.” He stared
out the window.

  “I don’t know how Caro tolerated people like that.” In that moment I remembered why I’d always liked Theo: we bonded over our shared misanthropy. “Was my father there?”

  “He was.” He turned his head toward me. “Was that why you didn’t come?”

  I shrugged. “Part of it.”

  “Even now, you two aren’t speaking?” Theo asked.

  I shook my head. “Nope.”

  “I haven’t spoken to my father much in the past couple of years,” Theo said. “But since Caroline died, I’ve been pulled back into his orbit.”

  “Why did you and your dad stop speaking?”

  “He hasn’t forgiven me for leaving the family business,” Theo said. “He still calls it ‘abandonment.’ What about you?”

  I really didn’t want to get into it, especially right then. “My father and I never got along.” That wasn’t exactly the truth, but it would do for now.

  “You didn’t move out of your parents’ house at fifteen because of that,” Theo said. “It was his drinking, wasn’t it?”

  “Caro told you about that?”

  “I know he was abusive,” Theo said. “Not to you or Caroline—at least, not according to Caroline. But toward your mother.”

  I nodded, grateful that I didn’t have to explain. My sister always had been our father’s defender; it was the main reason we’d stopped speaking for several years. There was so much more to say, but nothing I wanted to add at that moment.

  “Caroline said he’d had a problem with alcohol that made him abusive,” Theo added. “But she also insisted that he’s been sober for some time now. I’d never allow him near Teddy if he weren’t.”

  “Sure, blame the alcohol,” I muttered. It was typical of Caro—blame the drug and give the monster a pass. I cleared my throat. There were hard questions I had to ask. “Theo, a reporter at the funeral asked me if my sister was using drugs. I know that’s crazy, but . . .”