Chapter 4 - Claire Bennett’s Secret
By 3:26 A.M., Roman had moved the household staff into the ballroom.
Nobody was permitted to leave.
Roman stood beside Claire near the fireplace.
“You should tell me why Julian thinks you're useful.”
“I don't know.”
“You've worked here eleven months.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Claire frowned.
“Because you hired me.”
“Mrs. Carter hired you.”
“Then ask her.”
“I did.”
Roman handed her a file.
Claire opened it.
Her employment application.
Her face changed.
“What?”
Roman pointed toward one line.
Emergency contact:
Eleanor Bennett.
“My mother.”
“Your mother worked here.”
Claire looked up.
“What?”
“Twenty-three years ago.”
“No.”
Roman opened another folder.
“Eleanor Bennett. Personal secretary to my father.”
Claire stared.
“She told me she worked for an insurance company.”
“She lied.”
“Why?”
Roman pulled out an old photograph.
A younger Eleanor stood beside Roman’s father.
Behind them was a blue leather book.
Claire's eyes widened.
“The ledger.”
“Yes.”
“My mother knew about it?”
“She may have hidden it.”
Claire sat down.
Roman watched her.
“You really didn't know.”
“No.”
Her voice hardened.
“My mother died six years ago.”
Roman sat opposite her.
“Did she leave you anything unusual?”
“A house full of useless boxes.”
“Documents?”
“Recipes. Letters. Photographs.”
“Books?”
Claire stopped.
Roman noticed.
“What?”
“She gave me something before she died.”
“What?”
“A cookbook.”
Roman waited.
Claire looked almost embarrassed.
“She made me promise never to throw it away.”
“Where is it?”
“My apartment.”
Roman stood.
“We're going.”
Marcus entered.
“Boss, absolutely not.”
“Prepare the car.”
“The grounds aren't secure.”
“Then make them secure.”
Claire stood.
“You think the ledger is inside a cookbook?”
“I think dying people rarely make meaningless requests.”
Twenty minutes later, three vehicles left Vale House.
Claire's apartment was fifteen minutes away.
When they arrived, the front door was open.
Claire stopped.
“No.”
Roman pulled her behind him.
Marcus entered first.
The apartment had been destroyed.
Drawers emptied.
Furniture overturned.
Photographs scattered.
Claire ran toward the bedroom.
Roman followed.
She dropped to her knees beside the bed.
“It's gone.”
“The cookbook?”
“Yes.”
Roman looked around.
“Julian got here first.”
Then Claire noticed something.
“No.”
She crawled beneath the bed and reached inside a torn section of fabric under the box spring.
She pulled out a small key.
Roman stared.
“What does it open?”
Claire smiled faintly.
“My mother wasn't stupid.”
“Where's the book?”
“She didn't keep it here.”
“Where?”
Claire looked at him.
“Grand Central Station.”
Roman blinked.
“She rented a storage locker there when I was a teenager.”
“You remember the number?”
Claire held up the key.
“317.”
Roman almost smiled.
Then a phone rang.
Not Roman's.
Claire's.
Unknown number.
She answered.
“Hello?”
Anthony screamed through the speaker.
“Claire!”
Roman grabbed the phone.
“Anthony?”
“Roman, don't—”
A blow sounded.
Julian came on.
“Bring the key.”
Roman's face darkened.
“You hurt him and—”
“You have forty-five minutes.”
“Where?”
“The old Vale textile factory.”
Roman's expression changed.
Julian continued.
“And bring Claire.”
“No.”
“Then Anthony dies.”
Claire whispered, “I'll go.”
Roman covered the phone.
“Absolutely not.”
“He's your family.”
“He betrayed you.”
“He made a terrible choice.”
“And that means you should risk your life?”
Claire looked directly into his eyes.
“No.”
“Then we're finished.”
“It means I'm not going to become someone who can watch another person die just because I'm angry.”
Roman stared at her.
For the first time in years, someone had challenged him without fear, greed, or ambition.
Claire simply believed saving a life was worth the danger.
Roman uncovered the phone.
May you like
“We'll be there.”
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