Page 24 of Everyone’s a Liar

“Okay, mystery man.” She rolled her head from side to side, loosening her neck muscles. “You wanna play? Let’s go.”

Livia took her time going back to the Willows. The gray clouds had drifted to the south, leaving a sun-drenched afternoon, and despite the heat and humidity, it was too nice to waste the day in her rooms. Taking a lazy stroll around Rushville, she’d wandered in and out of the small stores, and finally sat in the shade of the gazebo in the park. Around her, the citizens went about their business, none of them in a hurry to get stuff done. There was a different pace here. New Orleans was the intoxicating hustle and bustle of chicory coffee. Rushville was the slow decadence of molasses.

The heat finally forced her back to her car, but even as she parked in front of the sprawling mansion, she found her feet carrying her to the back of the house. She remained distracted by her conversation with Bryce and the suspicion that the fake Jacob Pearson was connected to Winston. Or worse, her uncle.

Which meant that Marcel had been right. Jacob’s presence in her life had been because she was a Benoit.

A whisper of premonition brushed over her, leaving behind a heavy sense of dread. As if she was tainted by a darkness she couldn’t see.

Bypassing the garden, Livia was climbing the steps to the back terrace when a movement out of the corner of her eye brought her to a sharp halt. Someone was roaming around. She frowned as her gaze skimmed over the vast lawn. There was no one there, but she was certain that she’d seen a shadow.

Without giving herself time to consider the wisdom of confronting a potential intruder, Livia angled past the tennis courts, intending to cut off whoever was back there. It wasn’t until she reached the side of the pool house that she discovered the intruder was already escaping through the back gate set between a gap in the hedges.

Livia hesitated. She was willing to confront someone in the relative safety of the enclosed yard. She wasn’t going into the swamps. End of story. But then the person stepped out of the shadows of the high hedges and into the sunshine and she realized it wasn’t a stranger.

“Helene?” Livia stepped toward the tall woman, who was wearing a loose caftan that brushed the tops of her bare feet.

Her aunt continued to drift forward and with a muttered curse, Livia hurried to catch up with her. The older woman had been a raging alcoholic for as long as Livia could remember. It wasn’t safe for her to be out alone.

Darting through the open gate, Livia grabbed Helene’s arm. “Are you okay?”

The last thing she expected was for the older woman to turn around and smack her across the face.

“Of course I’m okay,” Helene snarled. “Get your hands off me.”

“Fine.” Livia released her hold on Helene’s arm and stepped back. She wasn’t injured, but her cheek was stinging from the blow. “Wander into the damned swamp if you want.”

Helene paused, her blue eyes narrowing as she studied Livia. Her face was gaunt and deeply wrinkled and her long brown hair was heavily streaked with gray despite the fact that she couldn’t be more than fifty-five or fifty-six years old.

“Who are you?” Her voice was rusty, as if she didn’t use it much. She swayed forward, studying Livia with blatant suspicion. Then, without warning, she sucked in a sharp gasp. “Giselle.”

Livia flinched. She’d seen a few pictures of her mother when she was young, but she’d never thought they resembled one another. Giselle’s hair had been a lighter shade of brown and smooth as silk. Her face had been a delicate oval and her skin kissed by the sun, a perfect contrast with her bright blue eyes. She’d also been tall and slender and with a casual grace. Everything that Livia lacked.

“No. I’m Giselle’s daughter.” She had to force the words past her stiff lips.

“Giselle,” Helene stubbornly repeated, her expression caught between joy and a strange, twisted horror. She reached out to grab Livia’s hands. “Oh my God. I knew it. You’re here.”

“No. I’m Livia. Giselle is dead.”

The bony fingers squeezed hard enough to make Livia hiss in pain. It was only the fear that she might accidentally trip the older woman and break her hip that kept her from jerking free of her grasp.

“You’re lying. She can’t be dead. I’ve seen her.”

“You’ve seen Giselle?” Livia demanded. “Where?”

Helene slowly turned her head to glance toward the nearby swamps. “She’s out there.”

It took a second to realize that Helene must be referring to the Benoit burial grounds that were tucked on a marshy spot of land that was protected by a circle of cypress trees.

“In the crypt?” she asked.

Helene shook her head. “She can’t rest.”

Livia forgot about her throbbing fingers as she studied her aunt with a sharp stab of curiosity. No one at the Willows was willing to discuss Giselle. It was like the family tried to erase her from their memories.

Only her ghost lingered.

“Why can’t she rest?” Livia demanded.