Chapter 2
Isabella recovered first.
She always did.
“She was paranoid.”
I looked at her.
She pushed fabric away from her gown.
“Vivian thought everyone was plotting against her.”
I held up the letter.
“She wrote Marcus's name.”
“So?”
Marcus stood slowly.
His lip was split.
“Vivian wrote a lot of things.”
I looked at him.
“You told me you were in Boston that night.”
“I was.”
“Then why did she write this?”
He shrugged.
“Because dead women can't be questioned.”
Charlotte whimpered against Emma.
Isabella looked at her.
Then smiled.
“There.”
Her voice became cruelly sweet.
“That face again.”
I stared.
She pointed at my daughter.
“She cries and everyone immediately believes whatever comes out of her mouth.”
Charlotte hid against Emma.
I crossed the room.
“Stop talking to her.”
Isabella rolled her eyes.
“You've made her impossible.”
“She is three.”
“Exactly.”
Her expression hardened.
“She should have learned by now that crying doesn't open every door.”
I glanced at the hidden room.
“Apparently it didn't open that one.”
Silence.
Emma looked at me.
“Boss…”
Isabella turned.
“Don't.”
Emma flinched.
Isabella smiled.
“Go back to carrying trays.”
I stared at her.
Emma straightened.
“No.”
That surprised Isabella more than me.
Emma continued.
“She locked Charlotte in there before dinner.”
My chest tightened.
“How long?”
“I don't know.”
Isabella laughed.
“Twenty minutes.”
Emma stared at her.
“Two hours.”
The gallery went silent.
I looked at Isabella.
She shrugged.
“She wouldn't answer a simple question.”
“What question?”
“Where Vivian hid the letters.”
Charlotte pressed her face into Emma's shoulder.
Isabella continued.
“I told her she could come out when she remembered.”
I stared.
“She is three.”
“She remembers plenty when she wants something.”
Then she looked directly at Charlotte.
“Don't you?”
My daughter shook her head.
Isabella smiled.
“What happened to all that bravery when you were scratching at the wall?”
My hands tightened.
Emma whispered:
“She was calling for you.”
Isabella scoffed.
“And?”
I looked at her.
“What?”
“She calls for Daddy every time she's uncomfortable.”
Her mouth curled.
“Hungry. Cold. Scared. Tired.”
Isabella laughed softly.
“As though the great William Sterling should come running because a toddler dislikes the dark.”
I stepped closer.
“Yes.”
Her smile faltered.
“If my daughter calls, I come.”
The gallery became quiet.
Isabella stared.
Then laughed again.
“You think that's strength?”
“Yes.”
She stopped.
Marcus stepped forward.
“This is getting ridiculous.”
I turned.
“Were you at the lake house?”
“No.”
I raised Vivian's letter.
“Then let's keep reading.”
His face changed.
Small.
Enough.
I unfolded the page.
Vivian's handwriting continued.
Marcus came through the south service road at 11:40 p.m.
Isabella was already here.
Marcus went completely still.
I looked at my fiancée.
“You were at the lake house too?”
Isabella laughed nervously.
“I was Vivian's friend.”
True.
Her closest friend.
The woman who sat beside me at Vivian's funeral.
The woman who held Charlotte while I buried her mother.
I felt sick.
Then Charlotte whispered:
“Daddy?”
I looked down.
“What?”
She pointed at Isabella.
“She said Mommy died because Mommy wouldn't stop looking.”
No one moved.
Isabella's face hardened.
I stared.
“What did you tell my daughter?”
She shrugged.
“Truth hurts.”
Then she smiled at Charlotte.
“Your mother should've learned when to leave grown-up business alone.”
The rage came clean.
Cold.
I looked at Marcus.
Then Isabella.
May you like
Vivian had not simply died while afraid of them.
They had spent two years teaching her daughter that her death was her own fault.
