THE MAFIA BOSS, THE LITTLE GIRL, AND THE SECRET BEHIND THE LOCKED DOOR

The object Vincent removed from his jacket was a photograph.

Its edges were worn, its surface creased from being handled too many times. In it, a beautiful woman with dark hair stood beside a younger Vincent on the steps of a garden. She wore a white dress, and her hand rested protectively over her stomach.

Elena.

I recognized her from the portraits throughout the mansion, but this photograph showed something I'd never seen in any of them.

She was laughing.

Not the polite smile she wore in the formal portraits. This was a carefree, almost mischievous laugh, the kind that made her eyes sparkle.

Vincent held the photograph carefully between his fingers.

"Do you know who this is, Emma?"

Emma leaned forward.

"The pretty lady?"

"Yes."

"Is she your wife?"

His jaw tightened. "She was."

Emma studied the photograph for several seconds.

"Why don't you visit her anymore?"

I nearly stopped breathing.

"Emma!" I whispered.

But Vincent didn't snap at her. He didn't even look offended.

"Because she's gone," he answered.

"Where did she go?"

"Somewhere I can't follow."

Emma considered that.

"Then you should remember her happy."

Vincent's fingers trembled around the photograph.

"That's what I'm trying to do."

"No, you're remembering her sad."

The words landed with astonishing precision.

Vincent looked at my daughter as if she'd opened a door inside him that he'd spent eighteen months trying to seal.

Then Emma reached out and touched the photograph.

"Can I see her closer?"

He hesitated before handing it to her.

Emma's eyes moved across the picture. Suddenly, she pointed to something in the background.

"Mommy, look!"

I approached reluctantly.

Behind Elena stood a little white garden bench. Beside it was a stone rabbit, its ears chipped and one paw raised. A tiny yellow ribbon had been tied around its neck.

"What's that?" Emma asked.

Vincent stared at the photograph.

"The rabbit was a present Elena gave me," he said. "She said every garden needed something that looked after the flowers."

Emma nodded solemnly.

"Like a guardian."

For the first time, Vincent looked directly at me.

"How old is your daughter?"

"Four."

"When was she born?"

"June 12."

Something changed in his expression.

"June 12 of which year?"

I answered.

His face went pale.

Elena had died eighteen months earlier, but her birthday had been June 12. She had celebrated it at the mansion with the staff, leaving behind a reputation for remembering every person's name and making even the newest employee feel welcome.

Vincent stood abruptly.

"Claire, I need to speak with you."

My stomach dropped.

He led us into a small library, where a pair of armed guards stood outside the door. Once we were inside, he placed the photograph on the desk.

"Tell me about Emma's father."

The question was so unexpected that I almost laughed.

"He's not part of our lives."

"Is he alive?"

"I don't know."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one I have."

I had met Daniel Parker when I was twenty-three. He'd been charming, patient, and gentle until the day he discovered I was pregnant. Then he'd vanished, leaving behind a disconnected phone number and an apartment that had been emptied overnight.

I'd never told Vincent any of this. I'd never told anyone in the household.

"Why are you asking me these questions?" I demanded.

Vincent looked toward Emma, who was sitting on a velvet chair, swinging her little legs.

"Because my wife was investigating something before she died."

"What does that have to do with my daughter?"

"I don't know yet."

That frightened me more than an accusation would have.

Vincent opened a drawer and removed a sealed envelope.

"Elena left this with her attorney three days before she died. I was told it contained instructions about her estate. I've never opened it."

"Why not?"

"Because I couldn't bear to."

He placed it in front of me.

The envelope bore Elena's handwriting. Beneath her name were six words:

FOR VINCENT. ONLY WHEN THE CHILD RETURNS.

My knees weakened.

"What child?" I whispered.

Vincent stared at the envelope.

Then, from somewhere deep inside the library, a small clock chimed four times.

Emma suddenly stopped swinging her legs.

"Mommy?"

I turned.

She was looking at the photograph again.

"That lady has my necklace."

I glanced at the thin silver chain around Emma's neck. Its tiny pendant was a crescent moon, a keepsake I'd received with her hospital discharge papers. I'd always assumed it had come from the hospital's charity gift shop.

I looked at the photograph.

Elena wore the same crescent moon.

And on its surface, barely visible beneath the glare, was a tiny engraved letter.

Before I could speak, Vincent's phone rang.

He answered.

A man's urgent voice came through the speaker.

"Boss, someone broke into Elena's sitting room."

Vincent went utterly still.

"The door was locked," he said.

"Not anymore."

A pause followed.

Then the man added, "And whoever did it left a message."