Chapter 3
Emma had been looking for Charlotte for forty-three minutes.
Forty-three.
The gala continued while my daughter sat inside a narrow restoration cavity behind an oil portrait.
No window.
One small ventilation gap.
Dark except for light around the frame.
I had walked through the donor ballroom twice during those forty-three minutes.
Hundreds of people had shaken my hand.
Nobody said Charlotte was missing.
Why?
Because Isabella told staff she had fallen asleep upstairs.
Again.
Authority controlling the first explanation.
Emma only became suspicious because Charlotte’s stuffed rabbit was missing too.
Charlotte never slept without it.
“Why didn’t you ask Isabella?”
“I did.”
Emma looked uncomfortable.
“She told me not to disturb you during donor remarks.”
Of course.
“What made you keep looking?”
“Charlotte hates being alone in strange rooms.”
Simple.
Emma checked the nursery.
Library.
Kitchen.
Staff staircase.
Then heard scratching behind the east-gallery portrait.
Charlotte had been trying to push it.
Three years old.
Filthy because the hidden compartment contained restoration dust.
The rabbit’s ear had torn while Isabella tried taking it.
Emma found the mechanism.
Pulled the portrait outward.
And saw a little hand.
That image would remain with me.
“What happened before I arrived?”
Emma glanced at Isabella.
Then answered.
Charlotte told her Isabella had repeatedly asked:
“Where does Mommy keep Daddy’s letters?”
Charlotte said:
“In Bunny.”
Then became frightened and refused to surrender him.
Smart child.
Isabella tried opening the seam.
Charlotte screamed.
Guests were approaching the gallery.
So Isabella pushed Charlotte into the cavity and closed the portrait.
Temporary, according to Isabella later.
Only until she could get everyone away.
Forty-three minutes.
Temporary becomes a remarkable word when the person inside cannot open the door.
Marcus knew Charlotte was there.
That came next.
I turned to him.
“Did you?”
His silence answered.
“How long?”
“Maybe fifteen minutes.”
My hands curled.
“And you left her.”
“I was trying to get Isabella out of the gala without creating a scene.”
There.
Again.
Adult reputation first.
Child later.
Then Marcus said:
“I never thought she’d leave Charlotte there.”
“You knew the door was closed.”
“Yes.”
“You knew she was three.”
“Yes.”
“You knew Emma was searching.”
He looked away.
May you like
“Yes.”
That ended whatever excuse remained.
