Part 6
Mara held her ticket and watched the tracks.
“You can still come,” she said.
Tessa shook her head. “If I miss another shift, Alvarez will put my body in the freezer beside the deceased beagle.”
“He likes you.”
“He likes schedules more.”
Mara looked at her. “What do I say to him?”
“Graham Vale?”
“Yes.”
“Your mother told you.”
“That sentence sounds ridiculous.”
“It can sound ridiculous and still be true.”
“What if he says he doesn’t know her?”
“Then you leave.”
“What if he says she stole it?”
“Then you do not confess to anything, sign anything, or let anyone take your phone.”
“You really do watch too many police shows.”
“Call me immediately.”
“What if they won’t let me leave?”
“Then call the police.”
“What if they are the kind of people the police believe before me?”
Tessa’s face lost its humor.
The train’s horn sounded in the distance.
“That,” she said, “is why I don’t like this.”
Mara looked down the track. “She asked me.”
“I know.”
“She never asked me for much.”
“That doesn’t mean every request was fair.”
“No.”
The train appeared through the rain.
Tessa gripped Mara’s arm. “The brooch does not matter more than you.”
Mara nodded.
“Say it.”
“I heard you.”
“That is not saying it.”
“The brooch does not matter more than me.”
“Again, but less like a hostage.”
Mara almost laughed. “I have to go.”
Tessa pulled her into a quick, hard embrace. Mara’s body resisted for half a second before giving in.
Then the train arrived, and the doors opened.
Mara found a seat beside a window fogged by other passengers’ breath. Tessa stood on the platform until the train moved. She raised one hand. Mara raised hers.
The station slid backward.
For the first twenty minutes, Mara watched industrial yards, wet roofs, and bare-limbed trees pass outside. The train rocked steadily enough to loosen something behind her eyes, but she could not sleep. Each time she closed them, she saw her mother’s hand hovering over the flame.
At Harrisburg, a woman in a red scarf sat beside her and opened a container of sliced apples. She offered one to Mara.
“No, thank you.”
“They’ll turn brown.”
“I’m okay.”
The woman shrugged and ate them herself. She spent the next hour doing a crossword puzzle in pen, sighing whenever the clues became difficult. Once, she asked Mara for a five-letter word meaning “refuse.”
“Deny,” Mara said.
“That’s four.”
“Reject.”
“Six.”
“Spurn.”
The woman counted. “That’s it.”
She wrote it down.
Mara stared through the window again.
At Lancaster, her phone rang from an unknown number.
She answered without speaking.
“Ms. Ellison?” Sloane said.
“Yes.”
“I wanted to confirm whether you were coming.”
“I’m on the train.”
A pause. “All right.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I am relieved.”
“Why?”
“I would prefer Mr. Vale hear this from you.”
“You still haven’t told him?”
“No.”
“You drove to my house, played my dead mother’s message, and now you’re bringing me into his engagement gala without warning him?”
“That is not how I would phrase it.”
“How would you phrase it?”
“I am following the only clear instruction Lillian gave me.”
Mara lowered her voice. The woman beside her continued the crossword but was no longer pretending not to listen.
“My mother is dead,” Mara said. “You don’t work for her.”
“No.”
“You work for him.”
“Yes.”
“So either you think this is important enough to risk your job, or you know something you aren’t telling me.”
Sloane was quiet.
“Which is it?” Mara asked.
“Both, possibly.”
“That isn’t good enough.”
“No. But it is honest.”
The train entered a tunnel. Their voices became surrounded by metal thunder.
“Who sent the clipping?” Mara asked.
“I have made inquiries.”
“That means nothing.”
“It means I asked the household office, security staff, event team, and Mr. Vale’s personal secretary. No one admits sending it.”
“Do you believe them?”
“Some.”
“Which ones?”
“I would rather not accuse anyone without evidence.”
“Someone came to my house.”
“Yes.”
“They knew my mother had contacted you.”
“Or they knew she intended to contact you.”
“Who knew about her?”
Sloane exhaled. “Mrs. Vale knew. She died eleven years ago. Graham’s late wife may have known. Two former members of staff might have known, though one is dead and the other is in assisted living. Beyond that, I cannot say.”
“His late wife?”
“Anne Vale.”
“How long has she been dead?”
“Seven years.”
The train emerged from the tunnel.
“Does Celeste Harrow know?” Mara asked.
“I don’t believe so.”
“Do you like her?”
Sloane hesitated long enough to answer.
“That isn’t relevant.”
“It might be if she sent the clipping.”
“She did not.”
“How can you know?”
“Because Ms. Harrow has spent months removing uncertainty from this evening. She would not introduce it.”
Mara looked at the blurred reflection of her face in the window. “Is she marrying him for money?”
The woman beside her stopped writing.
Sloane said, “That is not a question I can answer.”
“You answer fewer questions than anyone I’ve met.”
“I have spent thirty-one years in private service.”
“Is that supposed to explain it?”
“Yes.”
The call ended with instructions to meet at the east service gate. Sloane told her a driver could collect her from Philadelphia’s station, but traffic had stalled on the expressway because of a collision. He suggested she take the regional line, then a rideshare from Bryn Mawr.
“I’ll call when I’m close,” Mara said.
“Keep the item concealed.”
“I already am.”
“And Ms. Ellison?”
“What?”
“If anyone contacts you claiming to represent Bellweather, call me before responding.”
“Someone besides you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
But Sloane had already ended the call.
The woman in the red scarf looked up from her puzzle.
“You should not go,” she said.
Mara stared at her.
The woman placed the cap on her pen. “I’m sixty-eight. That gives me permission to offer advice no one requested.”
May you like
“You heard one side of a phone call.”
“I heard enough sides.”
