Chapter 3
Chase spoke first.
Not because he was brave.
Because he thought he could define the story before Tove did.
He sat in the library with soil still on one shoulder.
“You’re making this bigger than it is.”
I placed the photograph on the table.
His face changed.
Good.
“Who wrote this?”
“No idea.”
“Who took it?”
“No idea.”
“Who put it in my mother’s bag?”
“No idea.”
I leaned back.
“That is a remarkable amount of ignorance around one child you just accused of pretending.”
He looked away.
There.
“What was the second episode?”
His jaw tightened.
I waited.
Silence does useful work if you don’t rush to fill it.
Finally:
“Tove thought your mother was encouraging Mireya to cling to you.”
I stared.
“That does not answer the question.”
“She thought the episodes were being used.”
“By a three-year-old?”
“By Margaret.”
There.
New layer.
He believed—or claimed—that my mother used Mireya’s health emergencies to control where I spent my attention.
Ridiculous enough to be emotionally plausible.
Tove had complained for months that every time we planned engagement dinners, family weekends, or trips, Margaret found some reason Mireya needed me.
Except Margaret did not need to invent anything.
She was seventy-two.
She had her own life.
She loved my daughter because Mireya was her granddaughter.
“What did Tove want?”
Chase laughed once.
“A normal marriage.”
There it was.
Normal.
Meaning less child.
Less mother.
Less interruption.
Less history before her.
I kept my face still.
“And the photograph?”
He swallowed.
“Tove didn’t take it.”
“Who did?”
No answer.
I looked at his hands.
One thumb kept rubbing the side of his watch.
Old habit.
He did that when he knew more than he intended to say.
“Chase.”
His eyes lifted.
“Who planned the dinner?”
He hesitated.
Then:
“Edwin Vale.”
I knew the name.
Sixty.
Former estate physician turned private medical consultant for several allied families.
Retired from practice three years ago.
Too interested in inheritance disputes.
Too comfortable near frightened relatives.
Why would he have my daughter photographed?
Chase answered before I asked.
“Because he said Mireya was becoming the center of every Ravello decision.”
May you like
I felt something colder than anger.
A three-year-old had somehow become a strategic problem.
