Zoe slid her arm into a space between two stone slabs. And she smiled.
“Aha.”
Zoe withdrew her hand—and she was clutching a knife. It was about eight inches long. It was stained slightly with red rust—or dried blood.
Mariana watched Zoe grip it by the handle; she held it with a sense of familiarity—and then she stood up, turned the knife toward Mariana.
She pointed the blade directly at her. She stared at Mariana without blinking, her blue eyes radiating darkness.
“Come on,” she said. “We’re going for a walk.”
“What?”
“That way—through the trees. Let’s go.”
“Wait. Stop.” Mariana shook her head. “This isn’t you.”
“What?”
“This isn’t you, Zoe. This is him.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Listen. I know. I found the letter.”
“What letter?”
In response, Mariana took out the letter from her pocket. She unfolded it and showed it to Zoe.
“This letter.”
Zoe didn’t speak for a second. She just stared at Mariana. No emotional reaction. Just a blank look.
“You read it?”
“I didn’t mean to find it. It was an accident—”
“Did you read it?”
Mariana nodded and whispered, “Yes.”
There was a flash of fury in Zoe’s eyes. “You had no right!”
Mariana stared at her. “Zoe. I don’t understand. It—it doesn’t mean—it can’t possibly mean—”
“What? What can’t it mean?”
Mariana struggled to find the words. “That you had something to do with these murders … That you and he … are somehow involved—”
“He loved me. We loved each other—”
“No, Zoe. This is important. I’m saying this because I love you. You are a victim here. Despite whatever you may think, it wasn’t love—”
Zoe tried to interrupt, but Mariana wouldn’t let her. She went on.
“I know you don’t want to hear it. I know you think it was deeply romantic, but whatever he gave you, it was not love. Edward Fosca is not capable of love. He’s too damaged, too dangerous—”
“Edward Fosca?” Zoe stared at her with a look of astonishment. “You think Edward Fosca wrote the letter?—and that’s why I kept it safe, hidden in my room?” She shook her head scornfully. “He didn’t write it.”
“Then who did?”
The sun suddenly went behind a cloud, and time seemed to slow to a crawl. Mariana could hear the first drops of rain, tapping at the stone windowsill in the folly, and an owl screeching somewhere in the distance. And in this timeless space, Mariana realized something: she already knew what Zoe was going to say, and perhaps, on some level, she had always known.
Then the sun came out again—time caught up with itself with an abrupt jolt. And Mariana repeated the question.
“Who wrote the letter, Zoe?”
Zoe stared at her, her eyes full of tears. She spoke in a whisper.
“Sebastian, of course.”
Part Six
Oft have I heard that grief softens the mind,
And makes it fearful and degenerate;
Think therefore on revenge, and cease to weep.
—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Henry VI, Part 2
1
Mariana and Zoe stared at each other in silence.
It was raining now, and Mariana could hear and smell the rain hitting the mud outside. She could see raindrops breaking up the reflections of shivering, shaking trees in the river. Finally, she broke the silence.
“You’re lying,” she said.
“No.” Zoe shook her head. “I’m not. Sebastian wrote the letter. He wrote it to me.”
“That’s not true. He—” Mariana struggled to find the words. “Sebastian—didn’t write this.”
“Of course he did. Wake up. You’re so blind, Mariana.”
Mariana glanced at the letter in her hand. She stared at it helplessly. “You … and Sebastian…” She couldn’t finish the sentence. She looked up at Zoe, desperately, hoping she would take pity on her.
But Zoe only had pity for herself, and her eyes glittered as they brimmed with tears. “I loved him, Mariana. I loved him—”
“No. No—”
“It’s true. I’ve been in love with Sebastian ever since I can remember—ever since I was a little girl. And he loved me.”
“Zoe, stop. Please—”
“You have to face it, now. Open your eyes. We were lovers. We were lovers ever since that trip to Greece. On my fifteenth birthday, in Athens, remember? Sebastian took me into the olive grove, by the house—he made love to me, there, in the dirt.”
“No.” Mariana wanted to laugh, but it was too sick to laugh at. It was horrible. “You’re lying—”
“No, you’re lying—to yourself—that’s why you’re so fucked up—because deep down, you know the truth. It was all bullshit. Sebastian never loved you. It was me he loved—always me. He only married you to be near me … And for the money, of course … you know that, don’t you?”
Mariana shook her head. “I’m—I’m not listening to this.”
She turned and walked out of the folly. She kept walking.
Then she started to run.
2
“Mariana,” Zoe called after her. “Where are you going? You can’t run away. Not anymore.”
Mariana ignored her and kept going. Zoe followed her.
The dark clouds thundered above, and suddenly, there was a massive streak of lightning. The sky was almost green. Then, the heavens opened. Rain started falling heavily, pummeling the earth, churning up the surface of the river.
Mariana ran into the wood. It was dark and gloomy in the trees. The ground was moist, sticky, and it smelled dank. The interlocking branches of the trees were covered with intricate cobwebs, mummified bluebottles, and other insects, suspended in silken strands above her head.
Zoe followed, taunting her; her voice echoing through the trees.
“One day, Grandfather caught us in the olive grove. He threatened to tell you—so Sebastian had to kill him. He suffocated him right then with those giant hands of his. Then Grandfather left you all that money … So much money—it dazzled Sebastian—he had to have it. He wanted it for me, for him—for us. But you were in the way…”
The branches from the trees grabbed at Mariana as she fought her way past, tearing and scratching her hands and her arms.
She could hear Zoe close behind her, crashing through the trees, like an avenging Fury. All the time, she kept talking.
“Sebastian said if anything happened to you, he’d be the first suspect. ‘We need a distraction,’ he said, ‘like in a magic trick.’ Remember the tricks he used to do for me when I was little? ‘We need to make everyone look at the wrong thing—and in the wrong place.’ I told him about Professor Fosca and the Maidens—and that’s when he got the idea. It grew in his mind like a beautiful flower, he said—he had such a poetic way of talking—remember? He worked out every detail. And it was beautiful. It was perfect. But then … you took him away—and he never came back. Sebastian didn’t want to go to Naxos. You made him. It’s your fault he’s dead.”
“No,” Mariana whispered. “That’s not fair—”
“Yes, it is,” Zoe hissed. “You killed him. And you killed me too.”
Suddenly, the trees thinned out in front of them—and they found themselves in a clearing. The marsh spread out before them. It was a large pool of limpid green water, overgrown with weeds and brambles. There was a fallen tree, split open and slowly rotting, covered in yellow-green moss and surrounded by spotted toadstools.
And there was a strange smell of decay, a stench of something foul and rotten—was it the stagnant water?
Or was it—death?
Zoe stared at Mariana, breathless, holding the knife. Her eyes were red and full of tears.
“When he died, it was like I’d been stabbed in the guts. I didn’t know what to do with all my anger—all my pain … Then, one day—I understood—I saw. I had to carry out Sebastian’s plan for him, just like he wanted. It was the last thing I’d be able to do for him. To honor him, and his memory—and have my revenge.”
Mariana stared at her, incredulous. She was barely able to find her voice. She spoke in a whisper.
“What have you done, Zoe?”
“Not me. Him. It was all Sebastian … I just did what he told me to. It was a labor of love—I copied out the quotes he selected, planted the postcards like he said, underlined the passages in Fosca’s books. When I had a supervision, I pretended to go to the bathroom, and planted some hairs from Tara’s head in the back of Fosca’s wardrobe—I spattered some of her blood there too. The police haven’t found it yet. But they will.”
“Edward Fosca is innocent? You framed him?”
“No.” Zoe shook her head. “You framed him, Mariana. Sebastian said all I had to do was make you think I was afraid of Fosca. You did the rest. That was the funniest part of this whole performance: watching you play detective.” She smiled. “You’re not the detective … You’re the victim.”
Mariana stared into Zoe’s eyes, as all the pieces came together in her mind, and she finally faced the terrible truth she had wanted to avoid seeing. There was a word for this moment in Greek tragedy: anagnorisis—recognition—the moment the hero finally sees the truth and understands his fate—and how it’s always been there, the whole time, in front of him. Mariana used to wonder what that moment felt like. Now she knew.
“You killed them—those girls—how could you?”
“The Maidens were never important, Mariana—they were just a distraction. A red herring, that’s what Sebastian said.” She shrugged. “Tara was … difficult. But Sebastian said it was a sacrifice I had to make. He was right. It was a relief, in a way.”
“A relief?”
“To finally see myself clearly. I know who I am now—I’m like Clytemnestra, you know?—or Medea. That’s what I’m made of.”
“No. No, you’re wrong.” Mariana turned away. She couldn’t bear to look at her anymore. The tears streamed down her cheeks. “You’re not a goddess, Zoe. You’re a monster.”
“If I am,” she heard Zoe say, “Sebastian made me one. And so did you.”
And then, Mariana felt a sudden force to her back.
She was knocked to the ground, with Zoe on her back. Mariana struggled, but Zoe used all of her weight, pinning Mariana down in the mud. The earth was cold and wet against Mariana’s face. And she heard Zoe whispering in her ear.
“Tomorrow, when they find your body, I’ll say to the inspector I tried to stop you, that I begged you not to investigate the folly alone—but you insisted. Clarissa will tell him my story about Professor Fosca—they’ll search his rooms—find the evidence I put there…”
Zoe climbed off Mariana and flipped her onto her back. She loomed over her, raising the knife. Her eyes were wild, monstrous.
“And you’ll be remembered as just another of Edward Fosca’s victims. Victim number four. No one will ever guess the truth … that we killed you—Sebastian and I.”
She raised the knife higher … about to strike—
And Mariana suddenly found her strength. She reached up and grabbed Zoe’s arm. They tussled for a moment before Mariana swung Zoe’s hand as hard as she could—making Zoe lose control of the knife—
The knife flew out of her hand, and whizzed through the air—disappearing into the nearby grass with a thud.
Zoe leaped up with a cry, and ran to look for it.
While Zoe searched, Mariana pulled herself up—and noticed someone appearing behind the trees.
It was Fred.
He was hurrying over, looking concerned. He didn’t see Zoe kneeling in the grass, and Mariana tried to warn him. “Fred—stop. Stop—”
But Fred didn’t stop and quickly reached her. “Are you okay? I followed you—I was worried, and—”
Over his shoulder, Mariana saw Zoe rising up—clutching the knife. Mariana screamed.
“Fred—”
But too late … Zoe plunged the knife deep into Fred’s back. His eyes widened—and he stared at Mariana in shock.
He collapsed and sank to the ground—and lay there, still, unmoving. A pool of blood seeped out from under him. Zoe pulled out the knife and prodded Fred with it, checking if he was dead. She didn’t look convinced.
Without thinking, Mariana closed her hand around a hard, cold rock that was embedded in the mud. She pulled it out.
She staggered over to Zoe, bending over Fred’s body.
Just as Zoe was about to thrust the knife into his chest … Mariana slammed down the rock on the back of Zoe’s head.
The blow knocked Zoe sideways—as she fell, slipping in the mud, she landed facedown—on the knife.
Zoe lay still for a second. Mariana thought she was dead.
But then, with an animal-like groan, Zoe threw herself onto her back. She lay there, a wounded creature, with wide, scared eyes. She saw the impaled knife sticking out of her chest—
And Zoe started to scream.
She didn’t stop screaming: she was hysterical, screaming in agony and fear and horror—the screams of a terrified child.
For the first time in her life, Mariana didn’t go to Zoe’s aid. Instead, she pulled out her phone. She called for the police.
All the time, Zoe kept screaming, screaming—until, eventually … her screams merged with the wail of an approaching siren.
3
Zoe was taken away in an ambulance, accompanied by two armed police officers.
The escort was hardly necessary, as she had regressed to being a child: a frightened, defenseless little girl. Nonetheless, Zoe was charged with attempted murder; further charges were to follow. Only attempted murder—because Fred had survived the attack, just about. He was critically wounded, and driven to hospital in a separate ambulance.
Mariana was in a state of shock. She was sitting on a bench by the river’s edge. She was clutching a cup of strong, sweet tea that Inspector Sangha had poured for her from his flask—for the shock, and as a peace offering.
It had stopped raining. The sky was clear now; the clouds had rained themselves out, leaving only a few wisps of gray in the pale light. The sun was slowly setting behind the trees, and streaking the sky with pink and gold.
As Mariana sat there, she brought the warm cup to her lips and sipped the tea. A female officer attempted to comfort her, putting an arm around her—but Mariana barely noticed this. A blanket was tucked over her knees. She was scarcely aware of it. Her mind was blank as her eyes drifted along the river—and she saw the swan. It was racing along the water, gathering speed.
As she watched it, the swan spread its wings, and took flight. It flew up into the sky, and her eyes followed it into the heavens.
Inspector Sangha joined her and sat down on the bench. “You’ll be glad to know,” he said, “Fosca has been fired. Turns out he was sleeping with all of them. Morris confessed to blackmailing him—so you were right. With any luck, they’ll both get what’s coming to them.”
Looking at Mariana, he saw she wasn’t taking any of it in. He nodded at the tea. He spoke gently.
“How are you? Feeling any better?”
Mariana glanced at him. She gave a slight shake of the head. She didn’t feel better; if anything, she felt worse …
And yet something was different. What was it?
She felt alert, somehow—perhaps awake was a better word: everything seemed clearer, as if a fog had lifted; colors were sharper, the edges of things more defined. The world no longer felt muted and gray and far away—behind a veil.
It felt alive again, and vivid, and full of color, wet with autumn rain; and vibrating with the eternal hum of endless birth and death.
Epilogue
For a long time after that, Mariana remained in shock.
>
Back at home, she slept on the sofa downstairs at night. She’d never be able to sleep in that bed again; the bed she’d shared with him—that man. She didn’t know who he was anymore. She saw him as a kind of stranger, an impostor she had been living with all these years—an actor who had shared her bed and plotted to kill her.
Who was he, this pretend person? What lay beneath his beautiful mask? Was it all a performance—all of it?
Now that the show was over, Mariana had to examine her own role in it. Which wasn’t easy.
As she shut her eyes and tried to visualize his face, she struggled to see his features right. He was fading, like the memory of a dream—and she kept seeing her father’s face instead—her father’s eyes, instead of Sebastian’s; as if they were somehow essentially the same person.
What was it Ruth had said—about her father being central to her story? Mariana hadn’t understood it at the time.
But now, perhaps, she was beginning to.
She hadn’t been back to see Ruth. Not yet. She wasn’t ready to cry, or talk, or feel. It was still too raw.
Nor had Mariana returned to running her therapy groups. How could she presume to help another person, or offer any advice, ever again?
She was lost.
And as for Zoe—well, she never recovered from that hysterical screaming fit. She survived the stabbing, but it precipitated a severe psychological collapse. Following her arrest, Zoe attempted suicide several times, then suffered a massive psychotic breakdown.
Zoe ended up being declared unfit to stand trial. She was eventually committed to a secure unit, the Grove, in North London—the same unit where Mariana had recommended Theo apply for a job.
And it turned out that Theo had followed her advice. He was now working at the Grove—and Zoe was his patient.
Theo attempted to contact Mariana several times, on Zoe’s behalf. But Mariana refused to speak to him, and didn’t return his calls.
She knew what Theo wanted. He wanted to get Mariana to speak to Zoe. She didn’t blame him. If Mariana had been in his shoes, she would have done the same thing. Any kind of positive communication between the two women would be pivotal in Zoe’s recovery.
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