Chapter 5: The Morning She Came to My Door
I was back in the staff quarters by midnight.
Lily hadn't moved.
I sat on the edge of the bed and watched her breathe for a while, which is something mothers do when the world has become uncertain and a sleeping child is the only thing that feels solid.
Claire Ashworth had taken a copy of the photograph.
She had asked me eleven questions, each one precise, and written the answers in her portfolio without visible reaction.
Before I left, she had given me a card and said: "Don't delete anything.
Don't discuss this with anyone on staff.
If anyone asks you about tonight, you were called to check on a spill near the study.
That's all."
Nathaniel had walked me to the door of the study.
"Elena," he said.
I turned.
"What she said to Lily." He stopped.
Started again.
"I'm sorry."
I didn't know what to do with that.
So I nodded and went back downstairs.
I was dressed and in the kitchen by six the next morning.
The gala cleanup crew had been through overnight.
The ballroom was already reset, white linen fresh, the champagne towers disassembled.
The estate had a way of erasing evenings.
Vanessa came to the kitchen at seven forty-five.
The other staff found reasons to be elsewhere within ninety seconds.
That was how it had worked for months.
She entered a room and it quietly emptied.
She poured herself coffee.
Set the pot down.
Turned to face me.
"You were in the study last night," she said.
"I was called to check on a spill."
"Gerald doesn't handle spills."
I kept washing the breakfast dishes.
"Elena." Her voice was pleasant.
Careful.
"I want to be honest with you, because I think you're an intelligent woman and I respect that."
I turned off the tap.
"Whatever you think you saw," she said, "you need to understand the position you're in.
You're a single mother.
No local family.
Your employment here is at will." She set her coffee cup down gently.
"Nathaniel is under a great deal of pressure right now.
People around him sometimes take advantage of that.
Feed him information that isn't accurate.
I would hate for him to feel that someone he trusted had been doing that."
"Is that what happened?" I asked.
Her eyes sharpened.
"I'm trying to help you," she said.
"I understand."
"Do you?" She took one step closer.
"Because if you've shown anyone anything, a photograph, a document, anything you found in this house, that would be a serious problem.
Legally.
For you."
My hands were still in the dish water.
"I think," I said, "that you should speak with Mr.
Cross's attorney before you say anything further."
The same words I had given Nathaniel.
She recognized them.
I watched her recognize them.
Her expression didn't break.
But something behind it went very still.
"You've already spoken to someone," she said.
I didn't answer.
She picked up her coffee.
Walked to the door.
Stopped with her hand on the frame.
"You have a daughter," she said.
"Think carefully about what kind of example you want to set for her."
She left.
I stood at the sink for a moment.
Then I dried my hands, took my phone from my apron pocket, and sent Claire Ashworth a text: *She came to me this morning.
Kitchen.
Seven forty-five.
Attempted to discourage me from cooperating.
I have nothing recorded but I wanted you to know.*
Claire's reply came in four minutes: *Noted.
May you like
Do not be alone with her again if you can avoid it.
We're moving faster than planned.*
