Chương 3
Sophie’s eyes filled.
She blinked hard.
“He’ll say Mommy is lying.”
“Maybe.”
“He always says she gets confused.”
“Does she?”
“No.”
“Then we start there.”
Michael stepped away and made the call.
Damian’s phone rang almost immediately.
Mara.
He answered and gave her the facts in less than a minute.
She interrupted twice.
“Do not confront Grant alone.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“You were absolutely planning to.”
Damian glanced at Sophie.
“I’m developing patience.”
“Develop faster.”
He almost smiled.
Mara continued. “Police are appropriate if the child is reporting confinement and the woman may currently be inside. Your security people should preserve relevant surveillance and access-control data, but don’t start rummaging through personal devices or contaminating evidence. Keep the child safe. Do not coach her. And Damian?”
“Yes.”
“Being the owner of the house does not make you the investigating authority.”
“I know.”
“No, you know that sentence. I need you to know the meaning.”
The cream-and-gold door creaked.
Claire appeared again.
This time she opened it perhaps four inches.
Her eyes met Damian’s.
He raised his empty left hand.
Slowly.
Not signaling her to come out.
Just showing her that he had seen her.
Sophie whispered, “Mommy.”
Claire closed her eyes.
Then footsteps approached from the dining room.
The door shut.
Damian rose.
Grant came around the corner carrying a tray with two empty wineglasses.
He stopped when he saw Michael.
“Everything all right?”
Michael answered.
“Fine.”
Grant looked at Damian.
Then Sophie.
The child had moved behind Damian again.
Grant set the tray on a console table.
“Mr. Cross, I need a word.”
“Later.”
“It concerns my family.”
“So does mine.”
Grant’s expression flickered.
Damian had not meant the sentence to sound threatening. It did anyway.
Cross House had belonged to his family for ninety years. Almost everyone in the building tonight was there because of his invitation or his payroll. Grant knew that.
He also knew Damian could fire him with one sentence.
That imbalance bothered Damian suddenly.
Power could rescue people.
Power could also be the reason they had never spoken.
Grant had managed the house. Damian had trusted him because the wine arrived, the bills were paid, the lawns were cut, and no inconvenience reached the owner.
Competence had been camouflage.
“How long has that room been in use?” Damian asked.
Grant’s eyes went to the door.
“What room?”
Sophie’s fingers dug into Damian’s jacket.
Damian looked at Grant.
There it was.
Not a misunderstanding.
A lie.
Grant recovered quickly.
“That old closet? It’s not. Structural issues. We sealed it years ago.”
“Then why is Claire inside it?”
Silence.
Michael turned his head slightly.
Grant’s face emptied.
Not shock.
Calculation.
Then he sighed.
“She’s having one of her episodes.”
Damian felt Sophie move behind him.
“What episodes?” Michael asked.
Grant looked irritated by his involvement.
“Anxiety. Panic attacks. She sometimes needs somewhere quiet when the house is full.”
“Does she lock herself in?”
“No one locks her in.”
Sophie said, “You do.”
Grant’s eyes snapped toward her.
“Sophie.”
The girl flinched.
Damian stepped sideways and blocked his view of her.
Grant took a breath.
“Mr. Cross, with respect, you’re hearing something from a frightened child without context.”
“Then give me context.”
“My wife has been under psychiatric stress for months.”
Sophie came around Damian’s side.
“No, she hasn’t.”
“Sophie, enough.”
“No.”
Her voice shook.
“You lock her in.”
Grant’s composure cracked for half a second.
“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
The volume was not high.
That made it worse.
Sophie’s face changed.
Her chin tucked in.
Shoulders lifted.
A body preparing for impact that had not happened.
Damian looked at Grant.
“Step away.”
Grant stared at him.
“I’m standing ten feet from you.”
“Make it twenty.”
For several seconds neither moved.
Then Grant stepped back.
A doorbell sounded from the front of the house.
The dinner guests had begun drifting out. Coats were being brought from the cloakroom. Voices rose near the central staircase.
Grant heard it.
His eyes moved toward the foyer.
Michael noticed.
“Your car can stay where it is,” he said.
Grant looked at him.
“What?”
“Police are coming.”
Claire screamed behind the cream-and-gold door.
Not loudly.
One sharp sound.
Then something struck the floor.
Sophie ran.
Damian caught her around the waist before she reached the door.
“Mommy!”
The child kicked once in panic.
Damian set her behind him and moved to the door.
Grant lunged forward.
“Don’t open that.”
Michael stepped between them.
“Stay back.”
“You have no idea what’s in there.”
Damian pulled the silver key from his pocket.
Grant saw it.
The color left his face.
For the first time that night, Damian saw something more honest than calculation.
Fear.
Grant looked at Sophie.
“You went into my office?”
Damian moved in front of the child before the question had finished.
Grant took another step.
Michael put out an arm.
“Stop.”
Grant’s voice sharpened.
“That is my key.”
Damian closed his fist around it.
“Sophie, stay behind me.”
The child pressed herself against his side.
Damian looked at the cream-and-gold door.
Then back at Grant.
“That door opens tonight.”
He inserted the key.
It turned with a dull mechanical click.
The door did not open.
Something held it from inside.
Damian pushed gently.
An inch.
Two.
Then resistance.
“Claire?”
No answer.
Sophie began to cry silently.
Michael leaned close to the gap.
“Claire, my name is Michael Torres. I work security for Mr. Cross. Police are on the way. Can you hear me?”
A breath.
Then, very softly, “Yes.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Did something fall?”
“A chair.”
“Can you open the door?”
A pause.
“No.”
“Why not?”
Another pause.
“There’s a chain.”
Grant spoke from behind them.
“I told you she locks herself in.”
Claire flinched visibly through the gap.
Damian saw one eye, a section of pale cheek, strands of dark hair loose from the neat knot she wore for work.
“Claire,” he said.
May you like
Her eye found his.
“Did you put the chain on?”
