Chapter 3 - EIGHT WORDS FROM A DEAD MAN
Clara’s first instinct was to deny everything.
Her second was to run.
Neither would help.
Gabriel stood between her and the staff corridor. Elias’s office was behind him, but the door had already closed. If Clara called out, Gabriel could draw his weapon before Elias reached the hallway.
Assuming Elias intended to protect her at all.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Clara said.
Gabriel’s smile remained.
“That’s disappointing.”
“What is?”
“I thought you might be better at this.”
“At what?”
“Lying.”
He moved closer.
Clara forced herself not to retreat.
“You said his name was Peter Doyle,” Gabriel continued. “But the photograph showed Thomas Keane.”
Hearing the name spoken aloud felt like a door slamming shut.
Thomas Keane.
Her father.
A former mechanic, sometime fisherman, and lifelong collector of bad decisions.
He had disappeared fourteen months earlier.
Police assumed he had fled because of gambling debts.
Clara knew better.
“You’re mistaken,” she whispered.
Gabriel removed his phone.
The image on the screen showed Thomas entering a warehouse near the Chelsea docks. The timestamp was from the night Elias had been shot.
Clara looked away too late.
Gabriel saw recognition.
“Your father worked for Victor Sloane,” he said.
“No.”
“He repaired vehicles. Changed plates. Built hidden compartments.”
“He fixed engines.”
“He fixed whatever paid.”
Clara’s anger broke through her fear.
“You don’t know him.”
“I knew him better than you did.”
Gabriel stepped within arm’s reach.
“Thomas spent the final six months of his life delivering packages for Sloane’s organization.”
“You said final.”
Gabriel’s expression did not change.
Clara’s breathing stopped.
The police had never found a body.
No bank activity.
No confirmed sightings.
No proof of life or death.
“What did you do to him?”
“Keep your voice down.”
“What did you do?”
A door opened behind them.
“Gabriel.”
Elias’s voice cut through the corridor.
Gabriel turned.
Elias sat at the threshold of his office. His injured hand rested on the arm of his chair. His face was unreadable.
“Your employee was wandering,” Gabriel said.
“So were you.”
“I heard her door.”
“From the west gate?”
A small tension entered Gabriel’s jaw.
“I came back.”
“Clearly.”
Elias’s gaze shifted to Clara.
“Mrs. Foster is looking for you.”
At one in the morning, Margaret was almost certainly asleep.
Clara understood the dismissal.
She did not move.
Gabriel gave her a final glance.
“Go.”
Clara hated obeying him, but remaining would expose too much. She walked toward the stairs and descended without looking back.
At the bottom, she heard Elias’s office door close again.
Margaret’s room was near the kitchen.
Clara stood outside it for several seconds before knocking.
The door opened almost immediately.
Margaret wore a dark robe, and her silver hair hung loose around her shoulders. She held a heavy brass candlestick like a weapon.
“What happened?”
Clara glanced along the corridor.
“Can I come in?”
Margaret’s eyes narrowed.
Then she stepped aside.
Her room was plain and carefully organized. A narrow bed stood against one wall. A wooden crucifix hung above it. On the dresser sat a photograph of a much younger Margaret beside a woman with Elias’s eyes.
“Who is that?” Clara asked.
“Elias’s mother.”
“You knew her?”
“She was my sister.”
Clara stared.
Margaret closed the door.
“That information does not leave this room.”
“You’re his aunt?”
“I’m his housekeeper.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
Margaret’s mouth moved faintly. “You’re learning.”
Clara sat on the edge of a chair.
“My father’s name wasn’t Peter Doyle.”
Margaret went still.
“It was Thomas Keane.”
Recognition appeared immediately.
Clara saw it.
“You know the name.”
Margaret crossed to the window and pulled the curtain aside, checking the courtyard below.
“Where did you hear it?” Clara asked.
“You need to leave.”
“I can’t.”
“You arrived with one suitcase.”
“The gates are locked.”
“I can get you through the service tunnel.”
Clara stared. “There’s a tunnel?”
“Old storm access. It reaches the mainland beyond the western woods.”
“Why would a house need that?”
“This house was built by men who expected enemies.”
Margaret turned from the window.
“Pack your things.”
“I’m not leaving.”
The older woman’s face hardened. “Thomas Keane was connected to the shooting.”
“I know.”
“You know?”
“He called me that night.”
Clara’s voice shook despite her effort to control it.
“He sounded injured. There were sirens in the background. He told me not to call the police.”
“What else?”
Clara hesitated.
“Clara, if I’m going to help you, I need the truth.”
“He said eight words.”
Margaret waited.
“If Moretti survives, do not let him trust Gabriel.”
The color drained from Margaret’s face.
She sat slowly on the bed.
“Are you certain?”
“I’ve heard them every night for fourteen months.”
“Did you tell anyone?”
“No.”
“Not the police?”
“No.”
“Your mother?”
“She’d already had the stroke. She could barely speak.”
Margaret looked toward the door.
Clara lowered her voice.
“Gabriel recognized my father.”
“Then you have to leave before morning.”
“Elias knows I lied.”
“That is less dangerous than Gabriel knowing why.”
“I think Elias suspects him.”
Margaret’s head snapped toward her. “What did he say?”
Clara thought of the hidden microphone.
She did not know whether Elias wanted Margaret informed.
“He didn’t say anything directly.”
“Then don’t assume.”
“You’ve worked here for decades. Do you trust Gabriel?”
Margaret did not answer.
That was answer enough.
“What happened the night Elias was shot?” Clara asked.
“I wasn’t there.”
“But you know what people said.”
“People said a great many things.”
“What did Gabriel say?”
Margaret folded her hands.
“The meeting was supposed to happen at an abandoned shipyard. Elias went with Gabriel and two guards. Someone opened fire from the upper level.”
“Who survived?”
“Elias. Gabriel. One shooter who escaped.”
“And the guards?”
“Dead.”
“My father was there.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
Clara stood.
“If Gabriel killed him—”
“Sit down.”
“I need to find out.”
“You need to stay alive.”
Margaret’s voice became fierce.
“This is not a hotel, Clara. Men who enter this house sometimes disappear from the records of respectable society. You cannot investigate Gabriel Reed because your father left you a warning.”
“I came here to do exactly that.”
Margaret stared at her.
Clara felt strangely relieved to say it aloud.
“The salary mattered,” she continued. “My mother’s bills are real. But when I saw the listing, I recognized the address. I knew Elias lived here.”
“You deliberately applied?”
“Yes.”
“That makes you either very brave or very foolish.”
“I’m not brave.”
“Foolish, then.”
“Probably.”
Margaret rubbed both hands over her face.
Before she could answer, the doorknob moved.
Someone was trying the door.
Margaret’s expression changed instantly.
She pointed toward the wardrobe.
Clara slipped inside.
The wardrobe smelled of cedar and starch. Through a narrow crack, she saw Margaret open the bedroom door.
Gabriel stood outside.
“Have you seen Clara?”
“No.”
“She isn’t in her room.”
“Perhaps she’s in the kitchen.”
“I checked.”
Margaret yawned convincingly.
“Then perhaps she took one look at this family and walked into the Atlantic.”
Gabriel did not smile.
“Elias is asking questions about the shooting.”
“Elias always asks questions.”
“Not these.”
“What do you want from me?”
“If the girl speaks to you, tell me.”
Margaret’s face became cold.
“I do not spy on frightened housemaids.”
“You spy on everyone.”
“Only when I’m interested.”
Gabriel looked past her into the room.
Clara held her breath.
“You knew Thomas Keane,” he said.
Margaret’s hand tightened on the door.
“I knew the name.”
“Did Elias?”
“I don’t know.”
“You know everything Elias knows.”
“That has never been true.”
Gabriel leaned closer.
“If Clara mentions Keane, I need to hear about it before Elias does.”
“Why?”
“Because Keane helped arrange the ambush.”
Inside the wardrobe, Clara’s knees weakened.
Margaret did not react.
“Then why would his daughter come here?”
“Maybe to finish what he started.”
Clara pressed her fist to her mouth.
Gabriel continued.
“Or maybe Thomas left her something.”
“What?”
“That’s what I intend to discover.”
He stepped back.
“Tell me when she returns.”
Margaret began closing the door.
Gabriel stopped it with one hand.
“One more thing.”
“What?”
“Elias found a listening device.”
Silence.
Margaret’s face betrayed nothing.
“Did he?”
“He’ll blame me.”
“Should he?”
Gabriel’s eyes hardened.
“No.”
He released the door.
Margaret locked it after he left.
Clara emerged.
“My father helped arrange the ambush?”
“That is what Gabriel wants us to believe.”
“What if it’s true?”
Margaret looked at her with unexpected gentleness.
“Did you love him?”
Clara swallowed. “Yes.”
“Then finding out who he truly was may hurt.”
“I know.”
“No.” Margaret shook her head. “People always say that before the truth arrives. Then they discover knowing pain exists is not the same as feeling it.”
Clara thought of Thomas’s missed birthdays, unexplained bruises, sudden gifts, and months when he vanished without calling. She had spent years constructing excuses for him.
Maybe the lies had not begun fourteen months ago.
Maybe they had begun when she was a child.
“What could he have left me?” Clara asked.
“Did he ever send a package?”
“No.”
“A letter?”
“No.”
“Any keys?”
Clara shook her head.
Then she remembered the photograph.
She removed it from her purse.
Margaret studied the image under the bedside lamp.
Thomas stood beside the fishing boat, smiling into the sun. Behind him, the boat’s name was barely visible.
MERCY ANN.
Margaret turned the photograph over.
Nothing appeared on the back except an old coffee stain.
“Where did you get this?” she asked.
“My mother had it.”
“How long?”
“Years.”
Margaret ran one finger along the edge.
Then she stopped.
The photograph was too thick.
Using a sewing needle, she carefully separated the backing.
A narrow strip of paper had been hidden inside.
Clara unfolded it.
There was no message.
Only a sequence of numbers.
9-40-11-3-8.
Margaret stared.
Clara thought of the grandfather clock in the entrance hall.
Stopped at 9:40.
Covered in dust.
Never to be touched.
“The clock,” Clara whispered.
Margaret looked suddenly afraid.
Before either woman could say more, a bell rang inside the wall.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Margaret stood.
“What is that?”
“The east-wing alarm.”
Footsteps thundered through the house.
Men shouted downstairs.
Then came a gunshot.
Margaret extinguished the lamp.
Clara looked through the window.
At the edge of the trees, a figure ran toward the cliffs.
A second gunshot split the night.
The figure stumbled but did not fall.
Then Clara saw someone standing below in the courtyard.
Gabriel.
He held a pistol aimed toward the trees.
Yet he was not watching the fleeing intruder.
He was looking directly up at Margaret’s window.
May you like
And even through the darkness, Clara knew he could see her standing there.
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