The Only One Left by Riley Sager

THIRTY-FOUR

I’ll give whoever named Ocean View Retirement Home credit where it’s due. The place does have what its name promises. From a distance. And only if you look between the buildings on the other side of the street, the backs of which really do have an ocean view.

Inside is a large, tasteful lobby that makes the place look more like a hotel than a nursing home. There are potted palms, plush chairs, and paintings of seashells in pastel shades on the walls. A registration desk stretches along one end of the lobby, behind which sits a woman who appears old enough to be a resident. Gray hair. Mint green pantsuit. Lit cigarette jammed between her lips. She squints through the smoke, watching my approach.

“Welcome to Ocean View,” she says. “How may I be of assistance?”

I look to the doors on either side of the desk. One is closed and marked as being for employees only. The other is propped open, revealing a glimpse of a man pushing a walker down a hallway lined with burgundy carpet. The way into Ocean View.

“I’m here to see Bernice Mayhew,” I say.

The receptionist looks me up and down, assessing my uniform. “You’re not one of our nurses.”

“No. I’m with the insurance company.” I lift the medical bag I brought with me as part of the ruse. “They ordered me to check her vitals.”

“Why?”

“They didn’t tell me. You know how insurance companies can be.”

The receptionist nods, silently acknowledging that yes, insurance companies are terrible and yes, the two of us are just cogs in a vast healthcare industrial complex that puts profits over people every damn time. Still, she hesitates. “We have our own medical staff that evaluates the patients.”

“I’m just doing what I was told,” I say.

“I understand that. But them sending you here at this hour is very unusual.”

“I totally agree,” I say. “You can call the main office, if you want. But you’ll be on hold for an hour and what I need to do only takes five minutes. Check blood pressure, heart rate, temperature. Then I’m gone.”

I take a breath, proud of myself—not to mention a little alarmed—for being able to lie so effortlessly. The receptionist exhales a line of smoke and eyes the phone by her elbow, no doubt debating how much time she wants to waste on this. Not a lot, apparently, because she says, “Five minutes? That’s it?”

It’s all I can spare. I couldn’t get away until Archie brought dinner up to Lenora’s room. I asked him to stay with her while I ran into town to run an important errand. I told him I’d be gone for thirty minutes. Since the drive here took fifteen minutes and the drive back will take the same, I figure I can spend only five minutes with Berniece Mayhew before he starts to get suspicious.

I smile at the receptionist. “Depending on Mrs. Mayhew, it might only take four.”

“She’s in the Dunes wing,” the receptionist says as she takes a drag on her cigarette. “Room 113.”

I follow the burgundy carpet deeper into Ocean View. A directory just inside the door helps me get my bearings. Waves wing on the left, Dunes wing on the right, common area straight ahead. I go right, moving down a hallway that smells like bleach, lemon air freshener, and just a hint of urine.

At Room 111, I slow my pace. At Room 112, I adjust my nurse’s cap and smooth the skirt of my uniform. I then plaster a smile on my face and step into Room 113.

The room is small but tidy. Decent enough to visit, but not a place you want to spend much time in. Berniece Mayhew, though, has spent years here. And it shows. Propped up by pillows and wearing a terrycloth robe, she has the look of someone who doesn’t get out much. Her hair is a shock of white, which stands in contrast to a face darkened by age spots. She’s got a flat nose, chubby cheeks, and a chin that’s nonexistent. In its place is a flap of loose skin that droops like a wet rag on a hook. It sways when she turns to glare at me.

“Who are you?”

“My name’s Kit.” The time for lying ended in the hallway. Now I have no choice but to tell her the truth. “I work for Lenora Hope.”

“Are you her nurse?”

“Something like that, yes.”

Berniece turns back to the small TV sitting opposite the bed. Wheel of Fortune is on. My mother loved that show. “How’s Lenora doing?” she says.

“Fine, all things considered.”

She huffs with disappointment. “That’s a damn shame.”

“Would it make you happy to know her whole body’s paralyzed except for her left hand?”

Berniece Mayhew looks my way again, delight dancing in her eyes. “Is she suffering?”

“I don’t think so,” I say.

“I’d be happier if she was.”

A wooden chair sits just inside the door. I drop onto it and place my medical bag on the floor. “That’s an interesting thing to say about the woman whose generosity keeps you here.”

“Is that what you think it is?” Berniece says bitterly. “Generosity?”

“The only other thing I can think of is hush money. My best guess is it’s so you wouldn’t tell anyone Lenora Hope was having an affair with your husband. Or is it because you saw something you weren’t supposed to see the night most of the Hope family was murdered?”

Berniece Mayhew gives me a squinty-eyed look, as if seeing me for the very first time. “You’re a shrewd one, I’ll give you that. Bold, too. Just waltzing in here and saying something like that.”

“It’s true, isn’t it?”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t,” Berniece snaps.

“Which one do you want to tell me about first?”

“I’ve stayed silent since 1929. What makes you think I’m going to start blabbing now?”

“Because someone else is dead.”

Berniece’s eyes narrow. “Who?”

“Lenora’s previous nurse,” I say. “A worker. Just like me. Just like you. I think she was murdered. And I think it has something to do with what happened that night in 1929.”

I pause, waiting to see what kind of response I get. My hope is that the mention of Mary will play to her sympathies. If she has any. I’m about to see if Berniece Mayhew is as nasty as Lenora says she is.

The old woman turns back to the television, where Vanna White, pert and perky in a sparkly dress, turns letters. But Berniece doesn’t seem to be looking at the TV at all. Her gaze is fixed somewhere else, somewhere distant. A moment in the past only she can see.

“Ricardo wasn’t perfect.” Berniece sighs, and contained in that single sound is a lifetime of disappointment. “I knew that when I married him. He had, shall we say, a wandering eye. But he wasn’t mean, even when he drank, which is more than I can say about my father. So I wasn’t surprised when that rich bitch got her hooks into him. She could have had the pick of all those young men working the place. Some were full-time. Some were townies. Some of them fine-looking, too. But none as handsome as my Ricardo. I guess that’s why she set her sights on him. All she needed to do was bat those big, blue eyes at him and he was a goner.”

“Did you confront him about it?”

“Of course. Do I look like some shrinking violet to you?”

I have to concede that no, she does not. “What did he say?”

“He denied it, of course. He was a smooth talker, my Ricardo. Could talk his way out of anything. He tried to convince me nothing was going on between them, and I pretended to believe him. But I had a plan, you see.”

The chair creaks as I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “The hush money.”

“It only seemed fair,” Berniece says. “My husband was carrying on with one of the High and Mighty Hopes. I deserved something for my pain and suffering. So I gave them an ultimatum—pay up or I’d tell everyone exactly what kind of people they were.”

“And they had to decide—”

“The night all hell broke loose.”

Berniece tells me how all the Hope’s End staff was given the night off. That was apparently common every other Tuesday in the off-season. There wasn’t a whole lot to do there once October rolled around. Berniece told her husband she was going into town to see a movie.

“I asked if he wanted to come along, knowing he wouldn’t,” she says. “So I grabbed my coat, hat, and purse and left the cottage.”

“But you didn’t leave Hope’s End,” I say.

Berniece touches the tip of her nose, signaling I’m right. “I waited around outside, hoping to see Ricardo sneaking off to meet her. Sure enough, he left the cottage about fifteen minutes later, sauntering across the terrace and past the swimming pool to the garage. At first, I was surprised. Imagine a place that big, with all those rooms, and choosing to fuck in the garage.”

I jolt in shock. No, Berniece Mayhew is definitely not a shrinking violet. She smiles, pleased to have scandalized me.

“But then I realized what he was doing,” she continues. “Ricardo wasn’t a stupid man, despite doing many stupid things. He knew I was on to him. And I realized he knew I hadn’t gone to the movies. Heading to the garage was just a way of throwing me off his trail.”

I get her gist. Instead of entering through the back, he went to the garage before going around to the front of the house and using the main door.

“I marched right into that house, ready to catch the two of them in the act and then tell Winston Hope exactly what his daughter was doing with my husband. I was certain he’d pay up. After firing Ricardo, of course. And probably me, as well. Which was even more reason to try to get as much money as I could.”

“But it didn’t work out that way.”

“No,” Berniece says quietly. “It didn’t.”

I glance at my watch. My five minutes are up. But I can’t leave. Not until I hear the full story. Trying to move her along, I say, “What happened when you went inside?”

“I got as far as the kitchen before that bitch ran in.”

I can only assume the bitch in question is Lenora.

“She looked scared,” Berniece says. “At first I thought it was because of me. That she knew they’d been found out. But then I noticed her hands.”

My chair starts to vibrate. I look down and notice I’m tapping my right foot, set into motion by both impatience and suspense. “What about them?”

“They were bloody.”

My foot stills instantly, as does the rest of my body as I picture young Lenora standing in the kitchen, blood dripping from her hands. A horrible image for many reasons.

“Did she say anything?”

“Not at first,” Berniece says. “She just stared at me, shocked to see me there. And then we both heard a scream. It came from upstairs, echoing down the service stairs.”

“Do you know who it was?” I say.

“Either Mrs. Hope or the younger daughter,” Berniece says. “It was definitely a woman. As she kept on screaming, Lenora grabbed a knife from the kitchen counter. Then she glared at me and said, ‘Get out right now.’ ”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing. I just nodded and left. I was too scared to do anything else. But I knew something awful was happening inside that house. It wasn’t until the police came that I realized just how awful it really was.” Berniece looks down at her lap, ashamed. “I think about that moment a lot. If I’d refused to go, maybe Lenora would have killed me on the spot. Or maybe the other killings wouldn’t have happened. Maybe some of them could have been saved. Especially the younger daughter. Virginia. The poor thing. In such a state, too.”

“Why didn’t you tell the police any of this?”

“Because I wanted to protect Ricardo,” Berniece says, a catch in her throat. “I knew it wasn’t just Lenora responsible for those murders. Ricardo was part of it, too. He had to be. Because he never came back to the cottage. Not that night. Not ever. Once he disappeared, I knew deep down what had happened. That he had helped her kill that family.”

“Why would he do that?” I say. “You said yourself he wasn’t mean.”

“But he was easily swayed. My assumption is she tricked him. I’d seen how manipulative she could be.”

There’s that word again. The same one Mrs. Baker had used to describe Lenora.

Manipulative.

“I bet she gave him some sob story about her cruel parents and her awful life and how she was a prisoner in that big old mansion. And I bet Ricardo believed it. After a few months of hearing bullshit like that, he was probably brainwashed into thinking the only way they could be together is if the rest of her family was dead. So he helped her kill them.”

“Then he ran away,” I say.

“No, sweetie,” Berniece says, her voice so vicious it’s practically a snarl. “Lenora killed him, too.”

I remain completely still in the chair, incapable of movement. I try to imagine Lenora doing any of this. Killing not just her father, mother, and sister, but her lover as well. Only a monster would do that. And the Lenora Hope I know isn’t a monster.

Not that I thought she was completely innocent. She told me so herself.

I wasn’t a good girl.

Not in the least.

You’ll see for yourself very soon.

I also knew she had gotten rid of the knife used to kill her parents. Lenora made no attempt to hide that from me. Even so, I’d started to think she was innocent of the actual killings. In my mind, the only thing she was guilty of was covering for the man who really committed them, out of a misguided sense of love and loyalty.

But what Berniece is telling me shatters all my assumptions. If what she’s saying is true, then Lenora is just as guilty as Ricardo Mayhew. Probably more so, since she’s still alive and he’s . . . gone.

Unless Berniece is lying.

Not an impossibility, seeing how she just admitted to taking money for decades from the woman she says killed her husband.

“If Lenora murdered Ricardo,” I say, “why wasn’t his body found with the others?”

Berniece has a simple answer for that. “She shoved him off that terrace. You’ve seen it. That’s a long drop to the ocean.”

Yet that still doesn’t make any sense. Why would Lenora make her accomplice disappear? Especially when it meant all suspicion was directed at her? Either Berniece is making all of this up—or she misunderstood what she saw. And judging by her silence all these years, she doesn’t care about that as long as she’s getting paid.

“I don’t think this is about protecting your husband,” I say. “After the murders, you realized you had a new way to get your hush money.”

“And good thing I did, too,” Berniece says. “Because sure enough, we were all fired within the week. Those of us who were left, anyway. Half the staff quit as soon as they found out what happened. Lenora was too busy being questioned by the police to do it herself. She sent the kitchen boy to do it.”

“Archie?”

“That’s his name,” Berniece says with a nod. “I never could remember it. Poor kid, though. Barely eighteen and being told to fire everyone he worked with. When he got to the cottage, he could barely look me in the eye. He just handed me a check for a thousand dollars, written out by Lenora Hope herself.”

I check my watch again. Five minutes has turned to ten. And the man waiting for my return is the same person who first paid off Berniece.

“Did he tell you it was hush money?”

“He didn’t need to, hon,” Berniece says. “Paying off people was the Hope family way. They did it to get what they wanted, whether it was that concoction Mrs. Hope was always drinking or the pretty young maids Mr. Hope was always screwing. And it was how they kept people quiet, like whenever one of those pretty maids found themselves in trouble.”

“So you just took the check and left.”

A cold glint appears in Berniece’s eyes. “Not quite. I told him to inform Miss Hope that there needed to be a similar check every month or I’d tell the police I saw her with a knife the same night her parents were stabbed to death. Sure enough, one came for the same amount the next month. And the one after that. The money faucet’s been running ever since.”

I stand, feeling dirty in her presence. Yet I’m also reluctant to get back to Hope’s End, because I know at least some of what she’s said is true. About Mrs. Hope’s addiction and Mr. Hope’s sexual proclivities and how the family threw money at whatever problem they encountered. I know because I helped Lenora type it.

Which means everyone in that house other than Carter is corrupt.

Including Lenora.

“It’s about to be turned off,” I say. “Because either you go to the police or I will.”

Berniece glances over my shoulder to the doorway behind me, her features brightening. “Looks like they’re already here.”

A hand clamps down on my shoulder as the familiar voice of Detective Vick says, “Come with me, Kit. You know you shouldn’t be here.”

“We’re just talking,” I protest.

“You’re trespassing.” Detective Vick grips my arm and tugs. “And lying about it in the process.”

I unwillingly turn to the doorway. Behind the detective stands the woman I talked to at the reception desk. She glares at me and says, “Guess who called the insurance company after all? They have no idea who you are.”

“But I do,” Detective Vick says. “I’ll take it from here. Unless you want to press charges.”

The woman considers it, taking an uncomfortably long time to make up her mind. She looks to Berniece and says, “Did she hurt you in any way, Mrs. Mayhew?”

“It’s fine. She just asked me a few questions.”

“And now you need to tell them what you just told me,” I say.

Detective Vick won’t hear of it. “You’ve bothered her enough, Kit. Let’s go.”

He gives me just enough time to grab my medical bag before pulling me out of the room. As we leave, Berniece flashes me a gap-toothed grin.

“Tell Lenora I said hello,” she says. “And that I’ll see her in hell.”