Chapter 2 - THE WOMAN IN THE PHOTOGRAPH
Nobody left the mansion happy.
Caroline returned the necklace with a face like ice.
Vanessa accused Adrian of humiliating everyone.
Melissa said something under her breath about “servants knowing their place.”
Adrian ignored all of them.
By eleven-thirty, the gallery was empty.
I was back in the service corridor staring at the wooden frame.
Adrian stood ten feet away.
“You shouldn’t have chosen it.”
“I thought that was the point.”
“It was.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
His gaze moved toward the photograph.
“That frame belonged to my mother.”
I had expected that.
“What happened to her?”
He didn’t answer.
I should have stopped asking.
Instead, I said, “You look at her every night.”
His eyes sharpened.
“You noticed.”
“I clean the hallway.”
“That doesn’t explain how you know the time.”
I felt suddenly foolish.
“Routine.”
Adrian stepped closer.
“Most people in this house spend years trying to learn things about me.”
“I wasn’t trying.”
“That’s what makes it dangerous.”
The word landed strangely.
“Dangerous for who?”
He looked toward the frame again.
“Possibly you.”
Before I could ask what he meant, Grant appeared at the end of the corridor.
His face was composed again.
“Adrian.”
“What?”
“We need to talk.”
Grant looked at me.
“Alone.”
I began to leave.
Adrian stopped me.
“She stays.”
Grant’s expression tightened.
That was the first moment I understood the frame meant something beyond grief.
Adrian took it from my hands and turned it over.
The backing was covered by brown paper.
I had cleaned the frame before.
I knew that.
But I had never noticed the tiny metal tab near the bottom.
Adrian pulled it open.
Behind the photograph was another piece of paper.
Folded.
Old.
Grant went pale.
I noticed.
So did Adrian.
“What is that?” I asked.
Adrian unfolded it.
A handwritten note.
Only four lines.
He read silently.
Then something changed in his face.
Not sadness.
Shock.
Grant stepped forward.
“Give me that.”
Adrian looked at him.
“Why?”
Grant stopped.
Silence.
Adrian slowly turned the paper toward the light.
The handwriting was delicate.
Female.
His mother’s.
The note said:
ADRIAN, IF YOU EVER FIND THIS, DO NOT TRUST THE MAN WHO TOLD YOU THE FIRE WAS AN ACCIDENT.
THE LEDGER WAS NEVER DESTROYED.
IT WAS MOVED BEFORE THEY CAME.
LOOK WHERE I TAUGHT YOU TO COUNT.
My skin turned cold.
Adrian read it again.
Then looked at Grant.
“Who told me the fire was an accident?”
Grant’s face changed.
He didn’t answer.
May you like
Adrian didn’t need him to.
Because apparently, Grant already knew the answer.
