Chapter 3: What Mrs. Dolan Kept
Thomas picked up the notebook.
It was small.
Spiral-bound.
The kind sold in drugstores for a dollar ninety-nine.
The cover was bent at the corner, and a rubber band held it shut.
He looked at Mrs.
Dolan.
"What is this?"
"I've been keeping it for eight months," she said.
"I didn't know if I should say anything.
I kept telling myself it wasn't my place." She paused.
"Tonight I decided it was."
Thomas pulled off the rubber band.
The first page had a date at the top.
Eleven months ago.
Below it, in Mrs.
Dolan's careful handwriting, were three lines.
*Lily came down for breakfast.
Left arm.
Asked her.
She said she walked into the doorframe.*
Thomas turned the page.
Another date.
Another entry.
*Lily's wrist.
Red.
She was wearing long sleeves in July.
Didn't say anything when I asked.*
He turned another page.
Then another.
His hands slowed.
"How many entries?" Grant asked quietly.
"Thirty-one," Mrs.
Dolan said.
The kitchen went very still.
Vanessa's chin came up.
"This is a housekeeper writing down gossip.
You're going to take the word of a woman who scrubs our floors over mine?"
Thomas didn't look up from the notebook.
"Thomas." Vanessa's voice shifted.
Softer now.
Careful.
"You know how dramatic teenagers can be.
She bumps into things.
She's clumsy.
You've seen it yourself."
"I've seen her flinch," Thomas said.
He was still reading.
"I told myself it was shyness."
"It is shyness."
"Thirty-one times, Vanessa."
Vanessa turned to Grant.
"You cannot let him do this.
Not tonight.
Not in front of your entire board."
Grant looked at her for a long moment.
"The board can wait."
"Your father is not well.
He gets confused.
He gets emotional.
You know this."
Thomas closed the notebook.
He set it on the counter.
He looked at his wife of four years with an expression Grant had never seen on him before.
Not anger.
Something quieter and much more final.
"Lily," Thomas said, without looking away from Vanessa.
"Go upstairs."
Lily didn't move.
"It's all right," he said.
"Go."
She looked at Grant.
He gave her a small nod.
She slipped out of the kitchen without a word.
Her sneakers made no sound on the marble floor.
When she was gone, Thomas picked up the notebook again and held it out toward Vanessa.
"Tell me one entry in here that isn't true."
Vanessa folded her arms.
"I don't have to justify myself to a notebook."
"Then justify yourself to me."
"Thomas, I have managed this household for four years.
I have organized your dinners, managed your staff, dealt with your health appointments, and kept this family running.
And you're going to stand there and take the word of a grieving child who resents me for not being her mother?"
"She doesn't resent you," Thomas said.
"She's afraid of you.
There's a difference."
Vanessa's jaw tightened.
"I want to speak to you privately."
"No."
"Thomas—"
"I said no." He set the notebook down again.
"Grant, call Dr.
Reeves.
I want Lily examined tonight."
"Dad, it's after ten."
"I know what time it is.
Call him."
Grant already had his phone in his hand.
Vanessa watched him dial.
Something moved across her face — not guilt, not remorse.
Calculation.
"If you do this," she said quietly, "you will regret it."
Thomas looked at her.
"Is that a threat?"
May you like
She didn't answer.
But she didn't deny it either.
