Chapter 227: …I Do Not Know What To Do With Myself

I remember her sitting on the terrace steps at the manor.

She used to sit there in the late afternoons, sometimes with a book in her lap, although I rarely saw her turn a page. She would watch the gardeners working below and occasionally ask me whether I thought the flowers would survive the winter.

I never knew why she asked me.

I was younger, and I did not have particularly interesting answers. I would usually shrug and tell her that flowers survived when somebody remembered to look after them.

She once laughed at that.

It was a small laugh, barely more than a breath, but I remember it. I remember thinking she looked different when she smiled without trying to make somebody uncomfortable.

There were other moments, too. Brief conversations in hallways. An occasional shared complaint about family dinners.

Once, she gave me a sweet from a little box she had brought back from a trip, then pretended she had only offered it because she did not like the flavour.

I remember those things. I do not know what they mean now.

Perhaps she was capable of affection once. Perhaps she still was, somewhere beneath everything that came later.

Or perhaps I have taken a few ordinary moments from our childhood and turned them into something more meaningful because I dislike the thought that the person in that coffin might have been cruel from beginning to end.

It is easier to believe there was somebody worth remembering. It is also possible that I am wrong.

The priest closes his book.

The sound is small, but it draws my attention back to the grave.

Two men move forward and begin preparing the lowering mechanism. The casket descends slowly, disappearing inch by inch beneath the flowers and the waiting earth.

I watch until the brass handles are no longer visible.

A woman steps forward with a white rose. She places it near the edge of the grave, bows her head, and returns to her husband.

Another follows. Then another.

Nobody says anything particularly meaningful. They offer condolences to the family, exchange a few quiet words, and step away.

It is a strange way to say goodbye to somebody who spent so much of her life refusing to leave people alone.

I wonder whether she would have found the ceremony amusing. I wonder whether she would have hated seeing so many people pretending to mourn her.

Or perhaps she would have liked it.

Perhaps she would have enjoyed knowing that, even in death, she could make people gather in one place and speak about her.

I do not know.

That seems to be the only conclusion I can reach whenever I think about Louise.

I do not know.

"Would you like to leave?" Orion’s hand settles against my back.

I look at the grave for another moment. "Yes."

He does not ask whether I am certain. He simply guides me away from the gathering, keeping his hand at my waist as we walk along the wet gravel path.

The cemetery gates stand open ahead of us. Beyond them, several black cars are waiting. The drivers remain beside their vehicles, their faces politely lowered whenever Orion approaches.

I glance over my shoulder once.

The flowers are already beginning to collect rainwater.

Soon, somebody will cover the grave. The visitors will return to their homes, and the cemetery will become quiet again.

The world will continue. It always does.

The journey back is quiet. I sit in the back of the car with Orion beside me, watching the rain slide across the window. The city passes in grey buildings, wet roads, and people hurrying beneath umbrellas.

I am not sure what I expected to feel after the funeral.

Relief, perhaps.

There is something uncomfortable about knowing that a person who caused so much trouble can no longer cause any more. I should feel relieved that Louise is gone.

I should be grateful that there will be no more confrontations, no more carefully arranged scandals, and no more unexpected attacks disguised as family issues.

Instead, I feel as though somebody has left a door open in a house I thought I knew. I keep looking back at it, expecting to discover what is behind it.

But there is nothing.

Only the same questions.

Orion’s hand rests on my thigh. His thumb moves occasionally, tracing a slow line over the fabric of my trousers.

I glance at it. "Are you going to keep doing that?"

"Doing what?"

"That."

He looks down at his hand, then back at me. "Would you prefer I stopped?"

I consider the question. "No."

His mouth curves slightly. There’s something odd in his smile. "Then I see no problem."

I look out of the window again.

There are times when I think Orion deliberately makes it difficult for me to remain annoyed with him. He has an answer for almost everything, and when he does not, he simply looks at me until I begin to suspect that I am the unreasonable one.

It is an irritating quality. Unfortunately, it is also becoming familiar.

The car turns onto the private road leading to the penthouse entrance. The security barriers open before we reach them, and the driver takes us through the underground parking area.

When the vehicle stops, Orion gets out first. He offers me his hand and I take it.

The lift carries us directly to the penthouse, and I lean against the mirrored wall while the numbers above the doors change.

I feel exhausted.

Not the ordinary kind of tiredness that comes after a long day. It is something deeper, something that has settled into my bones and refuses to leave.

The past few weeks have been filled with too many things happening at once. The scandal, the threats, the accusations, the lake house, Alice’s disappearance, Louise’s capture, and then her death.

Every time I think the situation is finally settling, another piece of it breaks apart.

I am beginning to understand why people sometimes leave their homes and never return. There is a certain appeal to disappearing somewhere nobody knows your name.

Perhaps I would enjoy a small apartment by the sea. Somewhere with a balcony, a few plants, and neighbours who have never heard of the Vassilis or Dubois families.

I could wake up without wondering who had been attacked during the night. I could buy groceries without security following me. I could have a normal argument with somebody about the price of bread.

It sounds wonderful.

The lift doors open. Orion steps out first, and I follow him into the penthouse.

The familiar smell of cedar and coffee greets me. The lamps are already on, casting a warm glow over the living room. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city is covered by a thin layer of rain and evening fog.

Everything looks peaceful.

It is almost difficult to believe that the world outside is still full of people discussing Louise’s death.