Roger spoke first.
—We have to find out what happened to him.
I looked at him.
His face was pale.
Serious.
No greed.
No demand.
No selfishness.
Just resolve.
—We?
He swallowed.
—If you’ll let me.
I wanted to reject him.
A year earlier, I would have.
A month earlier, maybe too.
But he had dug up the box with his own hands.
And for the first time, he wasn’t asking for a share.
He was asking for a chance.
Father Miguel opened the last envelope.
Inside was one more document.
A photocopy of an old police report.
Name: Gabriel Ramos.
Alleged offense: possession with intent to distribute.
Status: released pending investigation.
Then stamped across the bottom:
CASE DISMISSED.
But beside it was handwritten in red:
“Check San Marcos hospital records.
Not dead.
Hidden.”
My heart slammed against my ribs.
Not dead.
Hidden.
I grabbed the paper.
—What does this mean?
Father Miguel’s face had gone gray.
—Elena…
—What does it mean?
He looked at the floor.
—Years ago, your mother came to me after hearing a rumor.
—What rumor?
He hesitated.
I stepped closer.
—Father.
His voice dropped.
—That Gabriel survived.
The room spun.
Roger stood quickly as if I might fall.
—Survived what?
Father Miguel’s eyes filled with tears.
—A staged overdose.
The air disappeared from my lungs.
—No.
—Mariana searched for him for years.
But the Aranda family controlled hospitals, lawyers, police contacts.
Every path ended before she could reach him.
I looked down at the red handwriting.
San Marcos hospital records.
Not dead.
Hidden.
My father’s photograph shook in my hands.
A man holding me as a newborn.
A man who loved me.
A man who may have spent thirty years somewhere lost, silenced, forgotten, or worse.
My mother’s fortune had not been the final secret.
Her true name had not been the final wound.
The Aranda family had not only erased a daughter.
They may have erased a father.
And if Gabriel Ramos was still alive…
Then somewhere in Texas…
There was a man who had spent thirty years believing his family was gone.
I looked at Roger.
Then at Father Miguel.
Then at the box.
My voice came out calm.
Too calm.
—We are going to San Marcos.
Roger nodded.
—When?
I folded the police report and placed it inside my jacket.
—Now.
Outside, the church bells began to ring.
One.
Two.
Three.
Each sound rolled through the courtyard where my mother had buried the truth.
And as I stepped out of Saint Gabriel Church with my father’s name in my hand, I understood something that made my blood run cold.
The Arandas had lost their silence once.
But if my father was alive, they had another secret to protect.
And people who bury the living once…
Do not hesitate to do it again.
CHAPTER 3: THE MAN WHO FORGOT HIS OWN NAME
The drive to San Marcos took less than an hour.
It felt like thirty years.
Rain chased us the entire way.
The windshield wipers moved back and forth with a rhythm that somehow matched the pounding inside my chest.
Roger drove.
I sat in the passenger seat holding the photograph.
The photograph of Gabriel.
My father.
A man I had never met.
A man I had spent my entire life believing had abandoned me.
A man who might still be alive.
Every few minutes I looked down at the picture again.
The same eyes.
The same smile.
The same gentle expression.
I searched for pieces of myself inside his face.
The shape of my nose.
The curve of my eyebrows.
The way he tilted his head.
Tiny clues.
Tiny pieces of a life stolen before it could begin.
Roger finally broke the silence.
—What if he’s gone?
I stared out the window.
—Then at least I’ll know.
—And if he’s alive?
My throat tightened.
—Then everything changes again.
Roger nodded.
Neither of us said another word.
Because both possibilities were terrifying.
San Marcos Regional Medical Center looked older than I expected.
The main building had been renovated several times.
But the original structure still stood behind it.
Three stories.
Brown brick.
Narrow windows.
The kind of building that carried secrets in its walls.
The receptionist frowned when she saw us.
—Records from thirty years ago?
—Yes.
—Those are archived.
I handed her a copy of the police report.
Her eyes narrowed.
Then widened.
Then narrowed again.
—Please wait.
She disappeared into a hallway.
Ten minutes passed.
Then twenty.
Then forty.
Finally an elderly man emerged.
Thin.
Gray hair.
Hospital administrator.
Retired, probably.
But not completely gone.
He carried a folder.
And the moment he saw the name Gabriel Ramos…
His face changed.
I noticed immediately.
Fear.
Recognition.
Guilt.
Something.
—Mr. Ramos.
His voice was barely above a whisper.
—You knew him?
The old man looked at me carefully.
Then at the photograph in my hands.
Then at my face.
His eyes widened.
—Dear God.
My pulse exploded.
—What?
—You have his eyes.
The room vanished.
The sound.
The people.
The walls.
Everything.
Only those four words remained.
You have his eyes.
I gripped the chair.
—You knew him.
The man slowly sat down.
As though his legs no longer trusted him.
—Gabriel arrived here in 1992.
—After the overdose?
His jaw tightened.
—Yes.
Roger leaned forward.
—Was it really an overdose?
The administrator looked toward the hallway.
Making sure nobody was listening.
Then he lowered his voice.
—No.
My entire body froze.
—What do you mean?
—The toxicology results never matched the police report.
I felt cold.
Very cold.
—Someone altered the paperwork.
Silence.
Roger cursed under his breath.
The old man continued.
—Gabriel arrived unconscious.
Severe head trauma.
Drugged.
Disoriented.
The police report claimed narcotics possession.
But none were found.
Not officially.
—Who did it?
The administrator laughed bitterly.
—Powerful people never leave signatures.
He opened the folder.
Inside were yellowed records.
Medical charts.
Doctor notes.
Psychological evaluations.
Then he stopped at one page.
His hands trembled.
—This.
I looked.
Patient Name:
Unknown Male.
My heart stopped.
Unknown Male.
Not Gabriel Ramos.
Not a teacher.
Not a father.
Not a person.
Unknown Male.
The administrator swallowed.
—When he woke up…
He didn’t know who he was.
I stared.
Roger stared.
Nobody moved.
—What?
—Temporary retrograde amnesia.
The words echoed through the room.
Amnesia.
Memory loss.
The administrator nodded.
—He remembered nothing.
Not his family.
Not his job.
Not his name.
Nothing.
My hands began shaking.
—No.
—I’m sorry.
The photograph blurred.
The room blurred.
Everything blurred.
Because suddenly every missing birthday made sense.
Every Christmas.
Every school play.
Every graduation.
Every lonely moment.
My father hadn’t stayed away.
My father had been stolen.
The administrator continued.
—We tried locating relatives.
Nothing.
—Because someone buried his identity.
—Exactly.
He handed me another document.
A discharge form.
Signed six months later.
Patient transferred.
Destination:
St. Christopher Recovery Center.
South Texas.
Date: October 1992.
I looked up.
—Recovery center?
—Long-term care facility.
—For memory patients?
—Mostly.
My pulse hammered.
—Do they still exist?
The administrator nodded.
—Barely.
The place almost closed years ago.
Hope exploded inside me.
The first real hope.
Not theory.
Not rumor.
Not a clue.
A location.
A place.
A path.
Roger stood.
—Let’s go.
But the administrator wasn’t finished.
—Wait.
His voice sounded strange.
Uneasy.
I froze.
—What?
The old man looked down.
Then back at me.
—He wasn’t alone.
My stomach dropped.
—What do you mean?
The administrator flipped another page.
Attached to Gabriel’s records was a photograph.
A woman.
Young.
Dark hair.
Beautiful.
Standing beside a wheelchair.
I didn’t recognize her.
Roger didn’t either.
The administrator tapped the picture.
—She visited him every week.
For years.
The room became silent again.
Dangerously silent.
—Who is she?
The administrator shook his head.
—She never gave her real name.
—What name did she use?
He checked the record.
Then answered.
—Maria.
The name hit me like lightning.
Maria.
Not Mariana.
Maria.
Close enough to hurt.
Close enough to hide.
Close enough to survive.
My heart started racing.
—My mother?
The administrator shook his head.
—No.
Not your mother.
My entire body went cold.
—Then who?
He pointed to the visitor log.
Occupation:
Private nurse.
Residence:
Unknown.
Relationship to patient:
Fiancée.
I stopped breathing.
Fiancée.
Roger looked just as stunned.
—That’s impossible.
The administrator nodded.
—Maybe.
But that’s what she claimed.
I looked again at the photograph.
Something felt wrong.
Very wrong.
The woman was smiling.
But her eyes weren’t.
They looked afraid.
Like someone posing under threat.
Like someone pretending.
Like someone hiding.
And suddenly…
A memory surfaced.
A photograph from my mother’s hidden files.
A face.
A younger face.
A woman standing beside Arthur Aranda at a charity gala.
The same eyes.
The same cheekbones.
The same smile.
My blood turned to ice.
—No.
Roger looked at me.
—What?
I grabbed my phone.
Opened the archived images.
Scrolled.
Scrolled.
Scrolled.
Then found it.
The gala photograph.
I held it beside the medical record picture.
The administrator leaned closer.
Roger leaned closer.
Nobody spoke.
Because it was the same woman.
Thirty years younger.
But unmistakably the same.
The administrator whispered:
—You know her?
I couldn’t breathe.
Couldn’t think.
Couldn’t move.
Because beneath the gala photograph was a caption.
A name.
A full name.
The woman who had visited my father every week.
The woman who claimed to be his fiancée.
The woman who somehow stayed close to him for years.
The woman connected directly to the Aranda family.
The caption read:
Victoria Aranda.
Arthur Aranda’s younger sister.
My mother’s cousin.
One of the people who helped erase her.
And somehow…
One of the last people known to have seen my father.
I slowly lowered the phone.
The room felt smaller.
The air heavier.
The truth darker.
Because finding my father was no longer the mystery.
The mystery was why an Aranda spent years watching him.
And what she was hiding.
Roger looked at me.
—Elena…
I nodded slowly.
My voice barely worked.
—We’re going to St. Christopher Recovery Center.
The administrator hesitated.
Then asked:
—What if he’s still there?
I looked down at the photograph.
At the man holding me as a baby.
At the father who never stopped loving me.
The father who may not even remember my existence.
And for the first time…
I was afraid of finding him.
Because after thirty years…
What if the man I had spent my entire life searching for…
Didn’t remember being my father at all?
CHAPTER 5: VICTORIA’S DIARY
Victoria Aranda knew someone had been inside her house the moment she stepped through the front door.
Nothing obvious was missing.
The paintings still hung on the walls.
The silver bowls still sat on the entry table.
The crystal chandelier still sparkled above the staircase.
But Victoria had spent seventy years surviving among the Arandas.
And survival taught people strange things.
Like how to recognize danger before seeing it.
She stood motionless.
Listening.
The house was silent.
Too silent.
Her pulse quickened.
Slowly, she walked toward the study.
The room where she kept everything.
The room nobody knew about.
Or at least nobody was supposed to know about.
The diary.
Thirty years.
Thirty years of names.
Dates.
Threats.
Meetings.
Payments.
Disappearances.
Lies.
Every ugly secret she had never been brave enough to expose.
Because for thirty years Victoria had lived with a sickness no doctor could cure.
Guilt.
And guilt had finally become heavier than fear.
She reached the study.
The door was open.
She never left it open.
Never.
Her hands began shaking.
The desk drawer stood slightly ajar.
The hidden compartment beneath it was exposed.
Empty.
The diary was gone.
Victoria sat down so abruptly that the chair nearly tipped over.
Her breathing became shallow.
No.
No.
No.
Not now.
Not after all these years.
Not when she had finally decided to tell the truth.
Not when Elena was so close.
Tears filled her eyes.
Because she knew exactly what would happen next.
The people responsible would not stop at theft.
They would start cleaning up loose ends.
And Victoria Aranda had just become one of them.
Three hours later, Roger and I were standing outside her house.
The property looked like something from another world.
Iron gates.
Perfect gardens.
Massive stone columns.
The kind of place my mother could have inherited.
The kind of place she chose to walk away from.
I looked at the mansion and felt absolutely nothing.
No envy.
No admiration.
Just anger.
This was the kingdom built from lies.
Roger parked.
—Ready?
I laughed bitterly.
—Not even close.
But I opened the door anyway.
Victoria answered after the second knock.
She looked exhausted.
Terrified.
Smaller than she had in the photographs.
For several seconds she simply stared at me.
Then tears immediately appeared.
—You look exactly like Mariana.
I swallowed hard.
—Can we come in?
She stepped aside.
Silently.
Defeated.
Like a woman who had finally run out of places to hide.
The study smelled of old books and expensive wood polish.
Victoria sat across from us.
Her hands wrapped around a cup of tea she wasn’t drinking.
Nobody spoke.
Finally I broke the silence.
—Where’s my father?
The question hit her like a punch.
Her eyes closed.
—I don’t know.
—Don’t lie to me.
—I’m not.
—You took him.
—No.
—Your signature transferred him.
Victoria looked down.
—Yes.
—Then tell me where he is.
Tears slid down her cheeks.
—I wish I could.
The room became silent again.
I hated silence.
Every terrible truth in my life seemed to begin with silence.
Finally Victoria whispered:
—Arthur found out Gabriel was recovering memories.
My stomach dropped.
—Recovering?
She nodded.
—Small things at first.
Names.
Places.
Faces.
Then bigger things.
Roger leaned forward.
—Like what?
Victoria laughed bitterly.
—Like crimes.
Nobody moved.
Nobody breathed.
Because suddenly everything made sense.
The transfer.
The disappearance.
The panic.
The surveillance.
My father wasn’t dangerous because he remembered me.
He was dangerous because he remembered them.
Victoria stood.
Walked to the window.
Looked out at the dark gardens.
Then spoke without turning around.
—Your mother was supposed to disappear quietly.
I felt cold.
Very cold.
—What do you mean?
—Arthur hated her.
The words landed like stones.
—Why?
Victoria closed her eyes.
—Because Arthur wasn’t supposed to inherit.
My pulse exploded.
—What?
She turned toward us.
For the first time there were no masks left.
No rich family performance.
No carefully controlled expression.
Only truth.
—Mariana was the rightful heir.
Roger cursed.
Victoria nodded.
—Arthur’s mother knew it.
Arthur knew it.
The attorneys knew it.
Everyone knew it.
But Mariana refused to play their game.
So they decided she was easier to erase than to defeat.
I thought about my mother selling tamales.
My mother patching leaks.
My mother pretending not to be hungry.
And suddenly my hands clenched into fists.
Because none of that should have happened.
Not because she deserved money.
But because she deserved justice.
And instead she got exile.
Victoria continued.
—The night Gabriel disappeared wasn’t random.
My heart nearly stopped.
—Tell me.
She sat down again.
Slowly.
Painfully.
Like every memory hurt.
—Gabriel discovered accounting records.
—What accounting records?
—Payments.
Secret payments.
The same payments eventually made to Mariana.
The same silence money.
The same bribes.
The same fraud.
The same corruption.
Roger frowned.
—How would a teacher find that?
Victoria looked away.
—Because he wasn’t just a teacher anymore.
I froze.
—What?
—Gabriel was helping Arthur’s father prepare educational programs for the company foundation.
The room tilted.
—He worked for them?
—Briefly.
Then he started asking questions.
Dangerous questions.
Questions honest people ask when they still believe truth matters.
Questions wealthy people hate.
Victoria swallowed.
—The week before he disappeared, he told Mariana he was gathering evidence.
My blood turned to ice.
Evidence.
Always evidence.
Always documents.
Always proof.
The one thing powerful people fear.
Then Victoria said something that changed everything.
—Gabriel didn’t lose all his memories.
Roger and I both stared.
—What?
—Not permanently.
—Then why didn’t he come home?
Victoria’s face crumpled.
Because she knew.
She had always known.
And she hated the answer.
—Because somebody convinced him he was dangerous.
My heart stopped.
—Explain.
Victoria looked directly at me.
—They told him he killed Mariana.
The world vanished.
Gone.
Completely gone.
The room.
The furniture.
The mansion.
Everything disappeared.
Only those words remained.
They told him he killed Mariana.
No.
No.
No.
—You’re lying.
Victoria shook her head.
Crying openly now.
—When Gabriel woke up without memories, they built a new story around him.
Roger stood up.
—You mean brainwashed him?
—Essentially.
My stomach twisted.
Victoria nodded.
—They told him he suffered a breakdown.
They told him he attacked Mariana.
They told him his daughter died.
They told him remembering would destroy him.
I couldn’t breathe.
I couldn’t think.
I couldn’t process the cruelty.
Because suddenly my father wasn’t just stolen.
He had been imprisoned inside his own mind.
For thirty years.
Then came the knock.
Three loud knocks.
Everyone jumped.
Victoria went pale instantly.
Terrified.
Not nervous.
Terrified.
The kind of fear that comes from recognizing danger.
Immediately.
Instinctively.
Roger moved toward the window.
Looked outside.
Then swore.
—Elena.
My pulse jumped.
—What?
Roger turned toward me.
His face completely drained of color.
—Black SUVs.
My heart stopped.
Not one.
Three.
Parked outside the mansion.
Men exiting.
Dark suits.
Professional posture.
Moving quickly.
Purposefully.
Like people with orders.
Like people who knew exactly where they were going.
Victoria whispered:
—They found me.
The blood drained from my face.
—Who?
She looked directly into my eyes.
And answered with the words I had dreaded for months.
—Arthur.
Another knock.
Harder.
Louder.
Closer.
Then a voice echoed through the house.
A man’s voice.
Cold.
Confident.
Familiar.
Even though I had only heard it once before.
—Victoria.
Open the door.
Arthur Aranda.
And somehow…
Something in his voice made me realize this wasn’t a family argument anymore.
This wasn’t about inheritance anymore.
This wasn’t about reputation anymore.
People were panicking.
Because somewhere out there…
My father was alive.
And someone was desperately trying to make sure we never found him.
CHAPTER 6: THE NIGHT ARTHUR ARANDA CAME FOR US
Nobody moved.
Not me.
Not Roger.
Not Victoria.
Not even the air seemed willing to move inside that room.
Outside, headlights illuminated the mansion grounds.
White beams cut through the darkness.
The shadows of men stretched across the front lawn.
Another knock.
Harder.
More impatient.
Arthur’s voice followed immediately.
—Victoria.
I know Elena is inside.
My blood froze.
How?
How did he know?
Victoria looked toward the front entrance like a prisoner hearing the executioner’s footsteps.
Roger whispered:
—Back door?
Victoria shook her head.
—They’re already there.
The room became silent again.
The kind of silence that comes before something terrible.
Then Arthur spoke once more.
This time louder.
—Victoria.
Open the door.
Or I will.
Victoria suddenly stood.
For the first time since we arrived, something changed inside her.
The fear was still there.
But now another emotion appeared.
Exhaustion.
The exhaustion of carrying secrets for decades.
The exhaustion of running.
The exhaustion of surviving.
She looked at me.
Really looked at me.
The way people look at someone when they know there may not be another chance.
—You have your mother’s eyes.
My throat tightened.
—Victoria—
—Listen to me.
Her voice cracked.
—No more running.
Roger stepped forward.
—What are you doing?
Victoria wiped her tears.
Then reached into her sweater pocket.
And pulled out a key.
A tiny silver key.
My stomach dropped instantly.
Another key.
Always another key.
Always another secret.
She pressed it into my hand.
—What does it open?
Her answer changed everything.
—A safety deposit box.
I stared.
—Where?
—Austin National Bank.
Roger looked confused.
—You said your diary was stolen.
Victoria nodded.
—It was.
—Then what’s in the box?
Her eyes filled with tears.
—The copies.
The room exploded.
Not literally.
But emotionally.
Inside my head.
Inside my chest.
Inside every corner of my soul.
Copies.
Not one diary.
Multiple copies.
Victoria had prepared for this.
For years.
Maybe decades.
Because deep down she always knew the truth would eventually come hunting her.
Outside.
A loud crash echoed through the mansion.
The front gate.
Someone had forced it open.
Arthur wasn’t waiting anymore.
Victoria inhaled sharply.
—They’re coming.
Roger grabbed a fireplace poker.
Not because he thought it would help.
Because people grab something when they’re scared.
Even if it’s useless.
I tucked the key into my pocket.
—What else is in the box?
Victoria hesitated.
Then whispered:
—Gabriel’s location.
Everything stopped.
Everything.
My heartbeat.
My breathing.
Time itself.
—What?
—I found him three months ago.
I nearly screamed.
—YOU FOUND HIM?
Victoria flinched.
Tears spilled down her face.
—Yes.
—And you didn’t tell me?
—I was trying to protect him.
—Protect him from what?
A violent laugh escaped her.
—From my family.
The answer hurt because it was true.
Another crash.
Closer now.
A door.
Inside the mansion.
Arthur’s people had entered.
Roger moved toward the hallway.
—We need to go.
Victoria nodded.
—Library.
—What?
—There’s a hidden exit.
Of course there was.
Families like the Arandas built escape routes into everything.
Secret passages.
Private elevators.
Underground tunnels.
Ways to disappear.
They always planned for betrayal because betrayal was their native language.
Victoria led us through the library.
Massive bookshelves covered the walls.
Hundreds of leather-bound volumes.
Generations of wealth staring down at us.
Then she pulled a specific book.
The shelf shifted.
A hidden doorway appeared.
Roger blinked.
—You’ve got to be kidding me.
Victoria almost smiled.
—I wish I was.
The passage smelled of dust.
Old stone.
Forgotten years.
We moved quickly.
The sounds from the mansion grew louder.
Voices.
Footsteps.
Doors opening.
Men searching room after room.
Arthur was getting closer.
Very close.
Then I heard him.
His voice echoed faintly through the walls.
Cold.
Controlled.
Dangerous.
—Find Victoria.
Find Elena.
The words sent chills down my spine.
Not because he was angry.
Because he wasn’t.
People shouting are emotional.
Arthur sounded calm.
Which meant he was determined.
And determined people are often far more dangerous.
The tunnel finally ended behind a detached garage near the edge of the property.
Victoria stumbled as we emerged.
Roger caught her.
She looked exhausted.
Older than before.
As though the last hour had aged her years.
We rushed toward the truck.
Then headlights suddenly appeared.
Another SUV.
Approaching fast.
Too fast.
My pulse exploded.
—Roger!
He saw it too.
The vehicle accelerated.
Straight toward us.
No hesitation.
No uncertainty.
Directly at us.
The driver intended to stop us.
Maybe worse.
Roger shoved Victoria behind him.
Instinct.
Protection.
The same man who once abandoned my mother now risking himself without thinking.
People change.
Sometimes slowly.
Sometimes painfully.
But sometimes they change.
The SUV swerved.
Brakes screamed.
Dirt flew everywhere.
The vehicle stopped barely twenty feet away.
The driver’s door opened.
And a woman stepped out.
Not Arthur.
Not security.
Not a lawyer.
A woman.
Tall.
Dark hair.
Mid-thirties.
Breathing hard.
Looking terrified.
I had never seen her before.
But she clearly knew us.
Especially me.
—Elena?
My heart pounded.
—Who are you?
The woman looked over her shoulder.
As if afraid someone had followed her.
Then back at me.
Her voice shook.
—My name is Sofia.
The name meant nothing.
At first.
Then she said the next sentence.
And my entire world flipped upside down.
Again.
—I’m Gabriel Ramos’s daughter.
Silence.
Absolute silence.
The wind stopped.
The crickets stopped.
Even my thoughts stopped.
Roger stared.
Victoria stared.
I stared.
Because there was only one possible meaning.
One.
Only one.
My voice barely worked.
—What?
The woman looked like she might collapse.
—I’m your sister.
The words hit harder than any truth before.
Harder than the inheritance.
Harder than Mariana.
Harder than the Arandas.
Harder than everything.
Because somewhere out there was my father.
Alive.
Missing.
Hunted.
And apparently…
He wasn’t the only family I had never known.
Before anyone could speak again—
Gunshots echoed across the estate.
One.
Two.
Three.
The sound ripped through the night.
Everyone dropped instinctively.
Victoria screamed.
Roger pulled me down.
Sofia spun toward the mansion.
Her face went white.
Completely white.
Because she recognized something we didn’t.
Immediately.
Instantly.
Terrifyingly.
She whispered:
—Oh God.
They’re not here for us.
My stomach dropped.
—What?
Sofia looked toward the mansion.
Toward the darkness.
Toward the place Arthur Aranda had entered minutes earlier.
Then she answered with a sentence that chilled every drop of blood in my body.
—Arthur just found the diary.
And if he found it…
Someone in that house is about to die.
CHAPTER 7: THE DAUGHTER NOBODY KNEW ABOUT
Nobody moved.
Nobody spoke.
Nobody breathed.
The gunshots still echoed through the night.
Three sharp explosions.
Then silence.
Terrible silence.
The kind that follows something irreversible.
Sofia was the first to move.
She grabbed my arm.
Hard.
—We have to leave.
I pulled away.
—No.
—Elena—
—Someone might be hurt.
—Exactly.
Her voice cracked.
—And if Arthur found the diary, he’ll be looking for everyone connected to it.
Roger stood up slowly.
His eyes fixed on the mansion.
—Who’s inside?
Victoria looked sick.
Absolutely sick.
Like she already knew the answer.
—The housekeeper.
My stomach dropped.
—What?
—Maria.
The elderly woman who had worked here almost forty years.
The same woman who practically raised Arthur.
The same woman who knew every secret.
The same woman who refused to leave after retirement…………………………..
