Chapter 13
Isolde requested one mediated meeting with Lorenzo before sentencing.
His attorneys opposed it.
He agreed.
No Birdie.
No family entourage.
No bodyguards inside the room.
Isolde entered wearing a simple dark suit.
Nothing aristocratic about it.
She began:
“I never meant for Birdie to fall all the way down.”
Lorenzo stared at her.
“You pushed her from the top.”
“I wanted to scare her.”
“Why?”
“She said she would tell you about Maeve.”
“That is not an answer.”
Isolde looked away.
Lorenzo waited.
Eventually:
“Because I knew once you understood what I had done, the wedding was over.”
“So you hurt her to preserve it.”
“I panicked.”
“You were forty.”
She flinched.
Then Lorenzo asked:
“When did you decide to date me?”
Isolde looked confused.
“You know when.”
“No.”
He slid the archive timeline across the table.
“When did you decide?”
She stared at June 3.
The first access.
Then July 17.
The dinner.
Her face changed.
“I was already attracted to you.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
Silence.
Lorenzo continued.
“Did you read Maeve’s first letter before you called me?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know Elena and I had never received it?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know Maeve believed I rejected contact?”
“Eventually.”
“Did you correct it?”
“No.”
“Why?”
Isolde’s eyes filled.
“Because you needed somebody.”
Lorenzo almost laughed.
“I had a daughter.”
“You were drowning.”
“I was grieving.”
“You were alone.”
“I had friends.”
“You didn’t let them close.”
That part was true.
Isolde seized on it.
“I knew how to help you.”
“No.”
Lorenzo’s voice remained level.
“You knew where the wound was.”
She began crying.
“I did love you.”
“I believe you.”
She looked up.
The answer surprised her.
Lorenzo continued:
“That’s why this is worse.”
He leaned back.
“You had years to become honest after love entered the picture.”
She said nothing.
“You could have told me Maeve wrote.”
Silence.
“You could have told Maeve I never rejected her.”
Silence.
“You could have stopped the school inquiry.”
Silence.
“You could have left Birdie alone on the staircase.”
Isolde closed her eyes.
Then she whispered:
“I was tired of competing with Elena.”
Lorenzo answered:
“Elena was dead.”
“I know.”
“And Maeve?”
“She was waiting in a file.”
There it was.
Isolde had experienced women as competitors even when one was dead and another had asked for no place except honesty.
Then she asked:
“Do you hate me?”
Lorenzo thought.
“No.”
She looked relieved too quickly.
He continued.
“But you will never be near my daughter again.”
The relief disappeared.
That relationship ended there.
Not with murder.
May you like
Not with revenge.
With access gone.
