“Um, no,” Leila blurted. “No.” She shook her head and fixed her gaze on the magazine, unable to understand the guilt stirring inside.
“People don’t fly from Africa to England just to say sorry.”
“It’s not like that. I have other things on my schedule. So it made sense to come by too. And, you know…” Leila grimaced. She opened the magazine to a random page, trying to rid her mind of the memory of Xander’s lips on hers, the feel of his hands in her hair, the scent of his aftershave. That wasn’t love. Definitely not. Even if she’d wanted it. Wanted more. Couldn’t stop thinking about it.
“Hmm.” Vivian seemed to fight back a smile. One corner kept popping up. “Right. But you didn’t see how gutted he was when he talked about you.”
Leila’s gut gave a twist. What if Xander had told her everything? She could only hope he had left out a few details.
“I’m planning on talking to the Westons,” she said hurriedly, hoping to distract Vivian. “They probably won’t want to see me, but I need to know what happened.”
Thankfully Vivian didn’t protest the new topic. “David Weston moved away after graduation. But obviously, I don’t know what Mr. and Mrs. Weston are up to these days. From what I had heard before the… before the explosion, they were drowning in legal problems.” She brushed her fingertips over the flower petals of the colorful bouquet on the table. “Closure is important. I’m sure you’ll find your answers.”
“Do you have closure?”
“You mean about the explosion?”
Leila nodded.
Vivian sighed and shook her head. “I’m afraid not. There are countless possibilities, but none that point to a particular person.”
“Really?”
Vivian turned her head and stared out the window. “My dad had all kinds of issues, you see. Mainly gambling every cent he earned and spending what he hadn’t on alcohol. For as long as I can remember, he always had someone angry with him. Something was bound to happen. Sooner or later.”
They chatted for another half hour, then Leila noticed Vivian’s eyes drooping and her shoulders sagging, so she said goodbye and caught a cab back to the hotel. It had been surprisingly easy to talk to Vivian, and she seemed to cheer up during her stay as they talked about other things.
Why couldn’t Xander just find a job near his sister? Why run off? Sure, he already had it lined up. He probably wasn’t expecting Vivian to wake up, but it didn’t seem right to leave her to recover on her own. Leila then reminded herself she would be in England for a couple weeks. If no one else, at least she could be there for her.
• • •
Leila stopped in front of the gates of the Weston Manor. Memories from that fateful day swirled in her mind. Every detail was so vivid, like it happened yesterday.
Swallowing, she stepped up to the intercom built into the brick column on the left side of the gate. Her initial hope had been Xander would have come with her. Then they could have talked to the Westons together. But she wasn’t going to wait around for him to come back.
Of course, she could have asked Mark to come, but that would have meant waiting another week, as he was attending some meetings with Interpol in Lyon. He didn’t want to talk to her over text messages and told her it would be best if they met at his office in London. But she couldn’t wait a whole week. She only had to talk to Mr. Weston.
Nothing more.
Stalling, she peered through the iron fence she had once climbed over. Now overgrown with ivy, the foliage blocked any decent view of the grounds. The only visible part of the manor was the jagged rooftop with shingles darkened from the morning rain.
She studied the spot where they had climbed the fence, then walked over, stuck a hand through the leaves, and wrapped her fingers around the cool, wet iron. She was close to getting her answers. If only she could get rid of the sickening feeling in her gut and ring the bell.
Rehearsing in her mind what she wanted to say, she wandered back over to the gate. She didn’t want to provoke Weston. Just give him an opportunity to talk, to confess. If he made any sign of aggression, she would be out of there.
Her finger hovered over the button. Before she could stop herself, she hurriedly pressed down. Her heart skipped a beat, and she jumped back as if the intercom would explode. When no answer came, she furrowed her brow and tried again. Feeling bolder, she leaned toward the intercom.
“Hello? Anyone there?” she asked seemingly no one as she hit the button a third time. Her questions were met by silence, except for the rushing sound of tires on wet asphalt as a car drove past.
Another minute went by with no answer. How could no one be home? Not even a butler or something? Did anyone have one of those anymore? She wandered along the fence and studied the branches of the tree hanging over the iron bars. The same tree she had climbed up to escape the dogs.
Another gust of wind rattled the branches and a few shriveled leaves floated down toward her. She frowned, her skin prickling at the nape of her neck. There was something eerie about the silence.
She wasn’t welcome here.
She pressed the button to the intercom again and shifted her weight from one foot to the other. No answer. “Anybody home?” Leila sang to the silent intercom, hitting the button several times with unneeded enthusiasm.
“Nobody has been home for years,” a gravelly voice said from behind her.
Leila whirled around. An elderly woman with a small, fluffy, white dog on a leash watched her. Leila hadn’t even heard them approach. The wiggling mop wagged its tail nervously and barked, baring its pointy fangs at her.
“Oh. Where’d they go?” Leila asked as she inched closer to the lady, casting a wary glance at the ankle-biter.
“It’s been about five years or so, hasn’t it? No one knows for sure what happened,” the woman began. She adjusted the large, round glasses magnifying her eyes, then deepened her voice to an ominous whisper, “But some say it was suicide.”
“Mr. Weston committed suicide?” Leila breathed. Suicide? Or another murder? Her heart pounded in her chest.
“I say it was his wife,” the woman exclaimed, jabbing a finger in the air. “She was the jealous type.” The woman leaned forward and slid her glasses back to the top of her nose. Her enlarged eyes blinked twice. “You should see yourself, lass. You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Where is Mrs. Weston now?” Leila asked urgently, praying she’d still be able to talk to someone.
“Her son put her up in a nursing home in town. Gone mad, she has. No one has been able to get a word out of her for two years now.” The lady shook her head and continued on her walk, muttering more to herself than to Leila. “Now the manor stands empty, rotting away. They should tear down that eye-sore if you ask me. But no one ever does, do they?”
Leila glanced over her shoulder at the gate, wondering what exactly had gone on behind it.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Leila strolled down the sidewalk under the warm, yellowish glow from the street lamps. The sidewalk sparkled as the light hit the surface, damp from the recent rainfall. Her hood covered her head, her hands shoved deep into her sweatshirt pockets. Though she had plugged her ears with earphones, the music didn’t help to calm the pounding of her heart. Thankfully, to the occasional passersby, she would simply appear as if she were on her way home from the train station.
