Chapter 2 - echoes in the dark
The ballroom remained so quiet that the faint clinking of ice in champagne flutes sounded like gunshots.
Victoria recovered her composure with the practiced ease of high society. She took a step toward Richard, her hand lightly resting on his sleeve. "Richard, darling, let security handle this. It’s obviously an orchestrated stunt. Some opportunist found an old society page in a public archive and sent an orphan in here to cause a scene."
Richard didn't move. He didn't blink. His gaze remained locked on Lucy’s face.
"Step back, Victoria," Richard said. His voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of an iron door slamming shut.
Victoria pulled her hand back as if burned.
Lucy shifted her weight from one worn shoe to the other. She looked up at Richard, noticing the silver watch on his wrist, the rigid line of his jaw. "You're him," she whispered. "The man from the garden."
"What did you say?" Richard asked, taking a slow step toward her.
"My mom said you lived in a stone house with tall black gates," Lucy said softly, clutching her little purse against her chest. "She said if she didn't wake up, I had to bring this picture to you. Only you."
Claire felt a cold ache in her chest. She stepped forward, keeping her posture deferential to the billionaire. "Mr. Whitmore, the girl arrived alone in a yellow cab twenty minutes ago. The driver told the front desk an envelope paid for her fare. Nobody came with her."
"Because it’s a con!" Victoria snapped, her voice tightening with thinly veiled desperation. "Arthur, tell him. Eleanor died in the clinic fire in Zurich. We buried an empty casket, but the Swiss authorities confirmed the dental matches. You handled the legal closure yourself!"
Arthur Hayes didn't look at Victoria. His eyes stayed on the worn photograph. "I handled the paperwork that was delivered to my desk, Victoria. I never saw the body."
Richard knelt down. The patriarch of the Whitmore empire, who had broken corporate rivals without flinching, lowered himself onto one knee so he was eye-level with the eight-year-old child. Up close, there was no denying it. The girl’s eyes were the unmistakable shade of hazel that had belonged to the Whitmore women for four generations.
"Where is your mother, Lucy?" Richard asked, his voice unexpectedly gentle.
"In the white room," Lucy answered, her lower lip trembling. "The red lights were flashing on the truck outside our apartment. Two men put her on a bed with wheels. She gave me the picture and twenty dollars, and told me to run before the lady in the fur coat came upstairs."
Richard’s head turned slowly toward Victoria.
Victoria’s breath hitched. "What? Why are you looking at me? I’ve been hosting this charity gala since four o'clock this afternoon!"
"I didn't say it was you, Victoria," Richard said coldly. He stood up, turning to Arthur. "Clear the room. Move everyone into the dining hall. Take the girl to my private study."
"Richard, what about the press?" Victoria protested, hurrying after him. "The New York Times is sitting at table four!"
"If one reporter snaps a photograph of this child," Richard said without turning back, "I will buy their publication by midnight and fire them by dawn."
He looked at Claire, whose hand Lucy was now clutching tightly. "You. Miss Dawson. Come with us. She seems to trust you."
May you like
Claire nodded, holding Lucy's cold little fingers. As they walked toward the service elevator, Arthur picked up the two photographs. When his thumb brushed the back of Lucy's print, he paused.
There was handwriting in faded black ink across the back of the picture. Arthur read the words silently, his breath catching in his throat, before quickly slipping it into his pocket.
