Chapter 7
Tilda did not run.
That mattered.
When Sofia returned to the suburban house, Tilda was sitting beside Elsie's bed.
The little girl slept with the recovered stuffed rabbit under one arm.
Sofia stood in the doorway.
“Tilda.”
The housekeeper looked up.
One glance at Sofia's face and she understood.
“Something happened.”
“Yes.”
Tilda stepped into the hallway.
Sofia closed Elsie's door softly.
“Victor says he put you in my house.”
Tilda stared.
“What?”
“Nine years ago.”
“No.”
“Think.”
Tilda shook her head.
“I applied through an agency.”
“Which one?”
She stopped.
Sofia waited.
Tilda whispered:
“Dane Domestic Placement.”
Silence.
She had never noticed the name.
Why would she?
Nine years ago, Victor Dane had supposedly been dead for almost a year.
Tilda covered her mouth.
“Oh God.”
Sofia watched.
Real shock.
Not acting.
“Who interviewed you?”
“A woman.”
“Name?”
“Margaret Lane.”
Sofia knew it.
Victor's older sister.
Also supposedly dead.
Of course.
Tilda sat down.
“I didn't know.”
“I believe you.”
Tilda looked up.
That surprised her.
“Why?”
“Because you broke the compartment open.”
Simple.
If Tilda had been Victor's active agent, Elsie would still be inside.
Sofia continued.
“But your father mattered.”
Tilda looked away.
“I barely knew him.”
“What did your mother say?”
“That he disappeared because he chose dangerous men over us.”
“Maybe true.”
Tilda laughed weakly.
“Comforting.”
Sofia sat opposite her.
“Victor says Caleb betrayed my mother.”
Tilda's eyes filled.
“My father?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I don't know yet.”
They sat in silence.
Then Tilda spoke.
“There is something.”
Sofia waited.
“My mother used to say one sentence when she was angry.”
“What?”
Tilda swallowed.
“Your father made his choice when he opened the nursery door.”
Sofia went still.
“Nursery?”
“I thought she meant ours.”
“Maybe not.”
Sofia's childhood house had a nursery.
The night her mother tried to leave with Caleb, Sofia had been twelve.
Not a nursery age.
But another child had lived there.
Sofia's younger brother.
Nicholas.
Five years old.
Dead in the south-route attack.
At least that was what she had been told.
Her chest tightened.
“What happened to my brother?”
Tilda stared.
“You had a brother?”
Sofia closed her eyes.
She almost never discussed Nicholas.
Too old a wound.
“The night Caleb supposedly helped my mother escape, attackers entered through the south route.”
“Nicholas died.”
Tilda whispered:
“I'm sorry.”
Sofia continued.
“My mother survived.”
“Caleb disappeared.”
“Later my mother died.”
Tilda looked pale.
“Victor said my father opened a nursery door?”
“Yes.”
Sofia stood.
The story she had carried for eighteen years had always been simple.
Her mother wanted to leave.
Caleb helped.
Her father discovered it.
During the chaos, enemies entered.
Nicholas died.
Caleb fled.
Her parents never recovered.
But Victor's words suggested something else.
Caleb had opened a nursery door.
Why?
Sofia called one of her oldest family men.
Arthur Keats.
Seventy-two.
Her father's former driver.
He answered on the second ring.
“Sofia.”
“I need the truth about Nicholas.”
Silence.
Long enough.
“Who told you?”
Wrong answer.
“Arthur.”
He sighed.
“Your father made us swear.”
“Dad is dead.”
“Yes.”
“So is Nicholas.”
Silence.
“Tell me.”
Arthur's voice aged ten years.
“Nicholas didn't die in the attack.”
Sofia gripped the phone.
Tilda stared.
“What?”
“He was taken.”
Sofia stopped breathing.
“By whom?”
“We thought Caleb.”
“Thought?”
“Your mother insisted he hadn't.”
“Did you believe her?”
“No.”
Sofia closed her eyes.
“Why not?”
“Because your father had proof.”
“What proof?”
“Caleb's key opened the nursery.”
The key.
Always doors.
Arthur continued.
“But years later…”
“What?”
“Your father learned the key had been copied.”
Sofia stared at the wall.
“Who copied it?”
“He never told me.”
“Did he know?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Two months before he died.”
Sofia's jaw tightened.
“Who?”
Arthur whispered:
“Victor Dane.”
The hallway disappeared around her.
Victor had not entered her life through Grant.
He had been there eighteen years earlier.
Nicholas.
The nursery.
The south route.
Her mother's attempted escape.
Caleb's disappearance.
All of it.
Sofia's voice dropped.
“Was Nicholas ever found?”
“No.”
“Body?”
“No.”
“What did Victor want with a five-year-old?”
Arthur didn't answer.
Sofia understood.
Leverage.
Same method.
Different generation.
Victor had done to her father exactly what he planned to do to Sofia.
Take the child.
Control the parent.
Tilda looked horrified.
Then Elsie's bedroom door opened.
The little girl stood there.
Sleepy.
Holding her rabbit.
“Mommy?”
Sofia crouched.
“What, baby?”
Elsie rubbed her eyes.
“The silver man came before.”
Sofia froze.
“When?”
“When Daddy put me in the wall.”
Tilda stepped closer.
“What did he do?”
Elsie frowned.
“Talked to Daddy.”
“About what?”
She thought.
Then:
“The boy.”
Sofia's heart stopped.
“What boy?”
Elsie hugged the rabbit.
“The boy who looks like Mommy.”
Tilda stared at Sofia.
Sofia could barely speak.
“What did they say about him?”
Elsie whispered:
“Silver man said he still doesn't know his real name.”
May you like
Nicholas.
After eighteen years, Sofia suddenly had a reason to believe her little brother might still be alive.
