Chandler resumed speaking. I absorbed none of it. For days, she had been in this house, organizing, cataloging, and working without complaint. And ceaselessly distracting me.
She did her job and nothing more. She was a good worker who didn’t need much guidance. I should hardly even have known she was here. And yet, when she was in the building, the air felt different. It was as if it became more inhabited.
“I need you in Columbus this afternoon,” Chandler said after returning from a short call, not even bothering to soften it.
“The contractor wants final confirmation on the atrium steel.”
“Schedule departure in twenty minutes,” I said to Geoffrey.
He nodded once from the doorway. “A car will be ready, sir.”
When the time came, I gathered the Columbus file, shutting my laptop without rereading the last report. The basement door remained closed at the end of the corridor. She was still working.
We moved toward the side entrance, and as I stepped outside, my gaze shifted automatically toward the corner of the lot. Her van sat there. I found myself slowly drifting over to it. Sunlight hit it differently today. The purple paint showed faint wear along the edges. It was old, but well-maintained. I should have kept walking. Instead, I slowed.
Chandler noticed. “Problem?” he asked.
“No.”
I moved closer and saw the side window curtain had been left partially open. I couldn’t explain what I saw. I had expected the sight of a cleaning van. I had not expected a bed with folded blankets stacked carefully and a pillow tucked against the wall. There were even fairy lights strung along the ceiling, complete with a small fan clipped to the frame.
It was intentional and organized. It looked lived in.
This was not a service vehicle. This was not a company-issued transport.
This was . . . a residence. I had to be mistaken.
Chandler stopped beside me, following my line of sight.
He said nothing. Neither did I.
My jaw tightened as I made the list in my head. She arrived early. She stayed late. She accepted Sunday hours immediately. Double the rate. The calculations rearranged themselves without permission. I disliked how quickly the conclusion formed.
“She does not live in that,” I said.
Chandler didn’t answer.
The silence was confirmation enough.
The driver got out of the car that was waiting for us on the other side of the driveway. I made my way over and got in without another word.
The drive toward Columbus began in silence, yet the image remained. The bed, the fairy lights, the small, deliberate order in a confined space, all of it set a boulder in my stomach.
By the timeI returned from Columbus, the estate felt altered. Nothing had changed. And yet, I walked directly to my study and closed the door. The file from the contractor sat open on my desk. I did not look at it.
Instead, I looked at nothing. The van was still replaying in my head. I had to be missing something, yet it was all adding up. It was starting to make sense, but I needed more. I did not like incomplete information.
I had to be missing something. I just needed to know what, because the picture forming in my mind could not be the truth.
I picked up the phone and looked up the number for Merry Band of Maids cleaning service.
It rang twice.
“Mr. Renault,” Tripp answered, voice slick with recognition. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I require the employment file for Belle Blythe.”
A beat.
