Chapter 2 - THE WOMAN IN THE PHOTOGRAPH
“You made my daughter laugh tonight, Miss Ashby. Now tell me what you want in return.”
Adrian Castellane spoke without raising his voice.
That somehow made the question worse.
Maren stood inside his study, her hands folded in front of her black uniform. Behind him, tall windows overlooked the dark gardens of the estate.
“I didn't want anything, sir.”
“Everyone wants something.”
“Your daughter wanted to dance.”
Adrian studied her.
For several seconds, the only sound came from the grandfather clock beside the fireplace.
Then he opened a leather folder.
“Your mother has a serious heart condition. Your landlord served an eviction notice three weeks ago. And between hospital bills and personal loans, you owe twenty-one thousand dollars.”
Maren felt her face grow hot.
“You investigated me?”
“I investigate anyone who comes close to my family.”
“Then you already know I work twelve-hour shifts because I need the money.”
“I know.”
“And you know my sister died five months ago.”
Adrian's expression changed.
Only slightly.
“Yes.”
“Then you should know something else.” Maren lifted her chin. “I didn't kneel beside your daughter because I wanted a reward. I did it because she looked lonely.”
Adrian closed the folder.
He had expected fear.
Or gratitude.
Not anger.
“My daughter's name is Iris,” he said quietly.
Maren nodded.
“She has a beautiful laugh.”
“She hasn't used it in eight months.”
His gaze drifted toward a silver-framed photograph on his desk.
“Before the accident, she danced everywhere. In the kitchen. On the stairs. Once, during a meeting, she climbed onto my conference table because she wanted the gentlemen to hear her new song.”
A faint smile appeared.
Then disappeared.
“She fell during a charity reception here at the estate. Her spinal injury was incomplete, but the doctors warned us not to expect a full recovery.”
“I'm sorry.”
“Don't be. She has heard enough apologies.”
He stood.
“I want you to become her personal companion. No cleaning duties. No serving guests. Your responsibility would be to spend time with her, listen to her, help her enjoy being five years old.”
Maren looked at him carefully.
“Does she have a therapist?”
“Several.”
“Then I won't interfere with their work.”
“Agreed.”
“And I won't tell her she can walk again just because someone wants her to believe it.”
Adrian's eyes softened.
“Agreed.”
He named a salary nearly four times what she earned as a maid.
Then he mentioned her debt.
“I can have the twenty-one thousand paid tomorrow.”
Maren stepped backward.
“No.”
Adrian frowned.
“Why?”
“Because I don't want your daughter growing up believing kindness is something rich people purchase.”
For the first time that evening, Adrian had no immediate answer.
Finally, he nodded.
“The salary stands. Your debts remain your business unless you ask for help.”
Maren considered the offer.
“Does Iris get a choice?”
Adrian looked toward the door.
“Tomorrow morning, we'll ask her.”
He reached for the photograph.
Maren saw a little girl sitting in a hospital wheelchair, smiling weakly at the camera.
Beside her knelt a young woman in pale-blue medical scrubs.
Dark hair.
A familiar smile.
A thin silver bracelet around her left wrist.
Maren stopped breathing.
“Where did you get that picture?”
Adrian glanced down.
“From the rehabilitation clinic.”
Maren moved closer.
Her fingers trembled as she touched the silver bracelet on her own wrist.
The woman in the photograph wore its twin.
“Tess,” she whispered.
Adrian looked up.
“What?”
“That's my sister.”
He examined the photograph again.
“Your sister worked with Iris?”
“She was a pediatric rehabilitation aide. She never told me which family she was assigned to. She said the clinic required confidentiality.”
Adrian's expression hardened.
“That woman was dismissed for stealing medication.”
Maren stared at him.
“No.”
“That's what the clinic reported.”
“My sister wouldn't steal medicine from a sick child.”
“Maren—”
“She died trying to clear her name after someone accused her of something she wouldn't explain.”
Adrian looked down at the photograph.
For the first time, uncertainty crossed his face.
Maren noticed a faint line of writing on its back.
“May I?”
He handed it to her.
She turned the frame over.
Someone had written six words in blue ink.
Maren knew that handwriting.
She had seen it on birthday cards, grocery lists, and the last note Tess left on their refrigerator.
The message read:
“AFTER SIX, CHECK THE BLUE BOTTLE.”
Maren looked at Adrian.
“Mr. Castellane…”
Her voice broke.
“My sister wasn't warning you about the accident.”
May you like
She held up the photograph.
“She was warning you about what happened afterward.”
