Chapter 3 - The Pink Crayon
For several seconds, Vincent didn't move.
Neither did I.
Mia seemed unaware that anything was wrong.
She simply reached for the drawing.
“You like it?”
Vincent looked down again.
The fourth figure was unmistakably a child.
Pink dress.
Long hair.
A crooked little crown.
I told myself Mia had imagined her.
Three-year-olds invented people every day.
Except Vincent looked as though someone had struck him.
“Where did you see her?”
His voice was quiet.
Mia shrugged.
“Upstairs.”
My skin prickled.
“Where upstairs?” I asked.
“The pretty room.”
Vincent's eyes snapped toward me.
“What room?”
“I don't know.”
Mia took my hand.
“The one Mommy doesn't clean.”
There were rooms on the third floor the housekeeping staff were forbidden to enter. I'd never questioned it. In houses like this, privacy came with locked doors and nondisclosure agreements.
Vincent crouched again.
“Show me.”
“Vincent,” Renzo said from behind him.
Vincent ignored him.
Mia happily marched toward the staircase.
I followed because there was no chance I was letting my daughter wander anywhere alone again.
Renzo followed us.
The third floor felt different from the rest of the estate.
Quieter.
Older.
Vincent stopped outside a white door at the end of the hall.
It was locked.
Mia pointed.
“There.”
Vincent removed a key from his pocket.
His hand hesitated before turning it.
The room beyond looked untouched by time.
A child's bed stood against one wall.
Stuffed animals lined a shelf.
A wooden dollhouse occupied the corner.
Above the bed were painted clouds and tiny gold stars.
My chest tightened.
Mia stepped inside.
I caught her shoulder.
“No, sweetheart.”
Vincent surprised me.
“It's okay.”
She walked toward the dollhouse.
Vincent remained at the threshold.
“This was Sofia's room,” Renzo said softly.
Vincent didn't correct him.
I finally understood.
His daughter.
The one who would have been six.
Mia pointed at a framed photograph on the dresser.
“There.”
My breath caught.
The photograph showed Vincent years younger beside a beautiful dark-haired woman holding a little girl.
The child wore pink.
Mia's drawing suddenly didn't feel funny.
Vincent picked up the picture.
“She saw this,” I said quickly. “She must have come in earlier and seen the photograph.”
“The door was locked,” Vincent said.
Renzo frowned.
“Always?”
“Always.”
Mia had already lost interest in our confusion.
She knelt beside the dollhouse.
Then she reached underneath it.
“There's something.”
Vincent crossed the room.
Mia pulled out a small envelope.
Dust coated its edges.
Vincent took it.
The handwriting on the front made him pale.
Vince.
Renzo saw it too.
“Is that Lucia's handwriting?”
Vincent didn't answer.
He opened the envelope.
Inside was a folded sheet of paper.
His eyes moved across it.
Then stopped.
“What does it say?” Renzo asked.
Vincent folded it immediately.
“Nothing.”
“Vince.”
“I said nothing.”
The warmth I'd seen earlier disappeared.
He ordered everyone downstairs.
That evening, the estate transformed.
Security doubled.
Cars arrived.
Men in dark suits moved through rooms speaking into earpieces.
I found Renzo near the kitchen.
“What happened?”
He studied me before answering.
“Five years ago, Vincent's wife Lucia and their daughter Sofia were killed in a car accident.”
My stomach twisted.
“Mia didn't know.”
“I know.”
“What was in the letter?”
“I don't know.”
He looked toward the hallway.
“But whatever it was scared Vincent.”
That surprised me.
“Scared?”
“Vincent doesn't increase security because he's angry.”
Renzo's expression hardened.
“He increases it when there's a threat.”
I immediately thought of Mia.
“I should take my daughter home.”
“No.”
Vincent's voice came from behind us.
He entered the kitchen.
“You're staying tonight.”
My pulse jumped.
“Absolutely not.”
His eyebrows rose.
It was probably the first time a housekeeper had spoken to him that way.
“Mia is not staying in a house you just filled with armed guards.”
“Your apartment is less secure.”
“How do you know where I live?”
“I employ you.”
“That doesn't answer my question.”
Something almost resembling amusement passed through his eyes.
Then it vanished.
“The letter contained an address.”
Renzo stepped closer.
“What address?”
Vincent looked at me.
“Ms. Harper's.”
The room became very quiet.
I stared at him.
“My apartment?”
“Yes.”
“That doesn't make sense.”
“No.”
Vincent placed the letter on the counter.
“It doesn't.”
I read the line written at the bottom.
If anything happens to me, find the woman at 214 Brook Street.
My address.
Except five years ago, I hadn't lived there.
I had been twenty-four, newly married, and living three states away.
“I moved there eighteen months ago.”
Vincent stared at the paper.
“Who lived there before you?”
“An older woman. Mrs. Bell. She died.”
“When?”
“About two years ago.”
Renzo was already typing on his phone.
Vincent looked toward the doorway where Mia was coloring at the breakfast table.
Then he said something that made every hair on my arms rise.
“Your daughter didn't find that letter by accident.”
I shook my head.
“She is three.”
“Exactly.”
His gaze hardened.
“Which means somebody wanted us to believe she did.”
Before I could answer, a crash sounded upstairs.
One of the security men shouted.
Vincent moved instantly.
“Stay here.”
He and Renzo disappeared.
Mia looked up.
“Mommy?”
I rushed to her.
Then I noticed something outside the kitchen window.
A man stood beyond the garden.
Watching us.
He lifted a phone.
The flash went off.
A photograph.
I grabbed Mia.
By the time security reached the garden, the man was gone.
May you like
But he'd left something on the stone wall.
A single pink crayon.
