Chapter 4 - THE GIRL IN THE PHOTOGRAPH
Lucian doubled security before midnight.
Mireille refused to sleep.
At 2:13 a.m., she found him in the library standing over architectural plans for Building Seven.
“You have an irritating habit of appearing silently,” he said.
“You have an irritating habit of knowing things about my life before I do.”
“Fair.”
She placed the threatening note on the table.
“This wasn’t about your debt.”
“No.”
“You chose me because of the fire.”
“In part.”
“In part?”
Lucian looked up.
“I chose you because when your father insulted you, you looked angry instead of wounded.”
Mireille blinked.
“That may be the strangest compliment I’ve ever received.”
“It wasn’t intended as one.”
“That somehow makes it worse.”
She pulled out a chair.
“Tell me everything.”
Lucian hesitated.
Then he opened a folder.
Inside were corporate records dating back fifteen years.
Voss Industrial.
Solvay Maritime.
Shell companies.
Insurance transfers.
And a name Mireille recognized.
Victor Dane.
Her father’s closest friend.
“Uncle Victor?”
“Not your uncle.”
“I know that.”
“He managed Voss Industrial finances when Building Seven burned.”
Mireille read the documents.
Two weeks before the fire, the warehouse insurance policy had tripled.
Three days afterward, a company in the Cayman Islands received $11.8 million.
“Dad?”
“We don’t know.”
“But you suspect him.”
“Yes.”
Mireille swallowed.
“Why was I there that night?”
Lucian became still.
“You don’t remember?”
“Only pieces.”
“What pieces?”
“My mother arguing with someone. Smoke. A red door.”
Lucian studied her.
“Your mother was there?”
Mireille looked at him.
“You didn’t know?”
“No.”
“She died six months later.”
“I know.”
“She got sick after the fire.”
“With what?”
“My father said pneumonia.”
Lucian’s expression changed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That wasn’t nothing.”
“Mireille—”
“Don’t protect me with silence.”
He looked at her for a long moment.
“Your mother’s death certificate lists cardiac arrest.”
Mireille went cold.
“No.”
“I’ve seen it.”
“He told us pneumonia.”
“Then he lied.”
Again.
The word seemed to be swallowing her childhood whole.
Lucian turned one of the photographs around.
A group stood outside Building Seven months before the fire.
Edmund.
Victor.
Lucian’s father.
Mireille’s mother, Celeste.
And another woman Mireille did not recognize.
“Who is she?”
“We don’t know.”
Mireille studied the woman.
Something about her necklace caught her attention.
A small silver bird.
Her mother had owned the same one.
Mireille ran upstairs.
Lucian followed.
She opened her suitcase and pulled out her sketchbook.
“What are you doing?”
She flipped through old drawings until she found one she had made from memory years ago.
A door.
Smoke.
Her mother’s hand.
And around that wrist—
a bracelet with a bird charm.
Lucian leaned closer.
Mireille whispered, “They matched.”
“What?”
“The jewelry.”
A knock interrupted them.
Mrs. Calder entered.
“Mr. Solvay, there’s someone at the gate.”
“Who?”
“Margaux Voss.”
Mireille stared.
Twenty minutes later, Margaux entered the library wearing jeans, a raincoat, and no makeup.
Mireille had almost never seen her sister without makeup.
She looked younger.
And terrified.
Lucian remained standing.
Margaux looked at him.
“I need to speak to Mireille.”
“You can speak here.”
“This is family.”
“So is the man trying to kill her.”
Margaux’s eyes widened.
Mireille stepped between them.
“What did Dad lie about?”
Margaux reached into her purse.
“I found this in his safe.”
She handed Mireille an envelope.
Inside was a photograph.
Celeste Voss stood outside Building Seven.
The date printed on the back was the night of the fire.
Beside her was the unknown woman.
And between them stood fourteen-year-old Mireille.
Mireille stared at herself.
“That’s impossible.”
“You were there,” Margaux whispered.
“I know I was there. But I don’t remember her.”
Margaux pointed at the unknown woman.
“I do.”
Mireille looked up.
“What?”
“I’ve seen her before.”
“Where?”
Margaux’s eyes filled.
“At Mom’s funeral.”
Lucian straightened.
“Who is she?”
“I don’t know. But Dad saw her and lost his mind. He dragged her outside.”
Margaux took another object from her purse.
The missing metal box.
Mireille gasped.
“You took it?”
“No. I found it in Dad’s study after you left.”
That meant the intruder at Lucian’s house had taken nothing.
They had broken in merely to frighten her.
Mireille opened the box.
Everything remained inside.
Photographs.
Letters.
The strange brass key.
Then she noticed the false bottom had shifted.
Lucian saw it too.
He lifted the velvet lining.
Beneath it lay a tiny cassette tape.
Margaux whispered, “What is that?”
Mireille turned it over.
Her mother’s handwriting appeared on the label.
FOR MIREILLE.
Lucian found an old cassette player in the house.
The tape hissed.
Then Celeste Voss began speaking.
“Mireille, if you’re hearing this, something has happened to me.”
Mireille gripped the table.
Her mother’s voice continued.
“Do not trust Victor Dane.”
A pause.
“And whatever your father tells you about the fire…”
Static crackled.
“…Edmund didn’t start it.”
Mireille closed her eyes.
May you like
Then came the final sentence.
“But he knows who did.”
