“Get on your knees and apologize,” Celeste Vale snapped. “Or I’ll make sure your daughter never sees you work in this town again.”
Mateo Reyes was already on his knees. The marble beneath him had soaked through the thin fabric of his uniform, and one of his hands shook as he held a ruined envelope against his chest.
In the center of Blackthorn Hall’s golden hallway, Celeste lifted a glass pitcher filled with cloudy white liquid and clinking ice. Her white dress looked as if it belonged in a wedding magazine. Her voice belonged somewhere much uglier.
“You stole from me,” she said. “Say it.”
“I didn’t steal anything, ma’am.”
“You were in my private sitting room.”
“Because you told me to deliver that envelope.”
Celeste took one step toward him. “Nobody is going to believe a servant over me.”
“Then they’ll believe me,” someone said from the open doorway.
Adrian Blackthorn stood beneath the afternoon light in a black suit, his expression unreadable. He had returned from New York two days early. Celeste’s face transformed so fast it frightened Mateo more than her shouting had.
“Adrian. Thank God. I caught him trying to steal your mother’s papers.”
Adrian didn’t look at her. He looked at the envelope, its edge wet and torn.
“What papers?”
“Old nonsense. Nothing important.”
“Then why is he kneeling?”
Celeste shifted the pitcher to her other hand. “He became aggressive.”
Mateo stared at her. He had barely spoken since she dragged him out of the service corridor.
Adrian crossed the marble slowly. “Stand up, Mateo.”
Celeste’s eyes flashed. “You’re taking his side?”
“I’m asking why a man who has worked here eighteen years is on the floor.”
Mateo rose, painful inch by painful inch. Adrian noticed a fresh red mark around his wrist. He noticed the wet envelope. And he noticed the pitcher.
“What’s in that?” Adrian asked.
“Lemonade,” Celeste said too quickly.
Adrian regarded the cloudy liquid. “My mother hated lemonade.”
“I know.” Celeste swallowed. “It’s for the guests.”
Adrian adjusted the front of his jacket, then turned away. At the third step, he stopped and glanced over his shoulder.
For a moment, the only sound was the slow tick of the grandfather clock at the end of the corridor.
Celeste hugged the pitcher to her body. “You’re mistaken.”
“Put it on the table.”
“Adrian, don’t speak to me like I’m staff.”
“Put it down.”
She set it on a carved console with a sharp click. Floating among the ice was a narrow white plastic band. The printed letters were distorted by condensation, but Adrian could read a date, the word BLACKTHORN, and a patient’s number.
His mother, Margaret Blackthorn, had died six weeks earlier in a private rehabilitation center. Celeste had arranged the transfer and promised Margaret had been comfortable. Adrian had been abroad when she died. He had hated himself for it ever since.
“Where did you get this?” he asked.
“I found it in a drawer. I was getting rid of old trash.”
“By putting it in a drink?”
“It’s a silly misunderstanding.”
Mateo made a sound that was almost a laugh and almost a sob.
Adrian turned. “Tell me what happened.”
“This morning, Mrs. Vale asked me to carry a sealed envelope from your mother’s room to the library. Before I reached the stairs, she took it back. Then she opened it, read something, and ordered me to say I’d taken it.”
“Liar!” Celeste said.
“Inside was a note in your mother’s handwriting,” Mateo continued. “I saw only one line.”
“What line?” Adrian asked.
Mateo looked toward the security camera above the arch. “She wrote, ‘Don’t let them move the girl again.’”
Celeste went pale.
Adrian followed Mateo’s gaze. “Where’s the security feed?”
“Down since yesterday,” Celeste answered. “Maintenance.”
Mateo shook his head. “I checked the monitor at seven. It was working.”
Adrian pulled out his phone and called the head of security. The call went straight to voicemail.
Then a text arrived from an unknown number.
