Chapter 2 - The Maid Who Wasn’t a Maid
Ava refused the hospital.
“Absolutely not.”
“You have a gunshot wound.”
“And somebody inside your organization shot me.”
She looked straight at me from the back seat of the armored SUV.
“You really want to announce which hospital I’m in?”
I had raised a stubborn daughter.
Unfortunately, she had inherited it from me.
Claire sat beside her, maintaining pressure over the dressing.
“She has a point.”
I looked at Claire.
“You seem unusually comfortable disagreeing with me.”
“You seem unusually surrounded by people who don’t.”
Harper almost smiled.
Even Ava did.
I didn’t.
“Who are you?”
Claire’s hands stopped.
“A maid.”
“No.”
Silence.
“You removed a bullet in my kitchen.”
“I had training.”
“What kind?”
She looked at Ava.
“Can we do this after she’s safe?”
Twenty minutes later, my private physician arrived at Ashford House.
Dr. Mason examined Ava in the medical suite.
Finally, he faced me.
“Claire probably saved her leg.”
Ava looked at Claire.
Claire looked away.
Mason continued.
“The bullet nicked an artery. If she’d waited for an ambulance, the blood loss could have become critical.”
I turned toward Claire.
“Office.”
She followed me downstairs.
I closed the door.
“Sit.”
“I’d rather stand.”
“Fine.”
I placed the deformed bullet on my desk.
“Who are you?”
“Claire Whitman.”
“Try again.”
“That is my name.”
“Where did you learn field surgery?”
She said nothing.
“Where did you get the scars?”
Nothing.
I leaned forward.
“And why did my daughter say you know the man connected to my wife’s murder?”
Her expression changed.
“I don’t know what Emma saw.”
“But you recognized something.”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“The man who pulled the gun in your kitchen.”
“Peter?”
She shook her head.
“Not Peter.”
My patience disappeared.
“Then who?”
“The man standing behind him.”
I remembered the guards.
Peter had been dragged away by two men.
One was Marcus Dean, my head of residential security.
The other—
“Cole Brennan.”
Claire nodded.
Cole had worked for me eleven years.
He had attended my wedding.
He had carried Emma at her mother’s funeral.
“No.”
Claire said nothing.
“You’re accusing Cole Brennan?”
“I’m telling you I know him.”
“How?”
She slowly rolled up her sleeve.
The mark near her elbow became visible.
“Six years ago, I worked as a trauma nurse attached to a private medical contractor overseas.”
That explained the stitching.
Not the fear in her eyes.
“One night, several armed men arrived with wounded civilians. They weren’t soldiers.”
“Who were they?”
“Mercenaries.”
My expression hardened.
“Cole?”
“He used another name.”
“What name?”
“Daniel Cross.”
I sat back.
Claire continued.
“One of his men had been shot. I treated him. Then I overheard a conversation I wasn’t supposed to hear.”
“What conversation?”
“They were discussing contracts. Bombings disguised as accidents. Vehicle explosives. Political assassinations.”
My throat tightened.
“Car bombs?”
“Yes.”
The room became very quiet.
“What happened?”
“They realized I’d heard them.”
She touched the scar on her arm.
“I escaped.”
“And six years later you randomly became my maid?”
“No.”
Finally.
The truth.
“I came here because of your wife.”
I stood so quickly my chair struck the wall.
“You have five seconds.”
“Your wife contacted me before she died.”
That stopped me.
“What?”
“Isabella found my name while investigating Cole.”
“You knew Isabella?”
“Only through encrypted messages.”
My wife had never told me.
Claire reached slowly into her pocket.
I drew my weapon.
She froze.
“Phone.”
She placed it on the desk.
“Open the hidden folder.”
I did.
There were photographs.
Documents.
Messages.
Then Isabella’s name.
I opened the final message.
CLAIRE, IF ANYTHING HAPPENS TO ME, PROTECT MY GIRLS.
My knees almost failed me.
The message was dated four days before Isabella died.
I stared at Claire.
“You knew?”
“I suspected.”
“And you waited three years?”
“I spent three years trying to prove it.”
“You came into my house under false pretenses.”
“Yes.”
“You got close to my children.”
“Yes.”
My voice dropped.
“Why?”
Her answer came quietly.
“Because whoever killed your wife never left.”
A knock interrupted us.
Harper entered without waiting.
Her face was white.
“Dad?”
“What?”
“Peter Lang is dead.”
Claire turned.
“What happened?”
“He was locked downstairs.”
Harper swallowed.
“Someone cut the security cameras for ninety seconds.”
I looked at Claire.
“Cole.”
She nodded.
Then Harper said, “There’s more.”
“What?”
“Emma drew something.”
She handed me a sheet of paper.
It showed a black car.
A woman.
Three children.
And a tall man standing beside the car.
On his hand was a black symbol.
Claire stared at the drawing.
I saw recognition again.
“What is it?”
“That tattoo.”
Her voice became barely audible.
“Cole had it overseas.”
I reached for my gun.
Claire caught my wrist.
“Wait.”
I looked down at her hand.
“Take your hand off me.”
“If Cole realizes Emma remembers him, he won’t run.”
“Why not?”
Claire looked toward the ceiling, where my daughters slept.
May you like
“He’ll come for her.”
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