Chapter 2 - The Man Who Knew My Dead Wife
Victor Shaw had been standing guard outside my office the night my wife died.
That memory came back so suddenly that for several seconds I couldn't hear anything else.
Three years earlier.
February.
Snow against the windows.
A phone call at 2:14 in the morning.
Car accident.
Black ice.
No witnesses.
My wife, Elena, dead before paramedics arrived.
Harper sitting in the back seat without a scratch.
And Victor was the man who had driven me to the hospital.
Now my six-year-old daughter was pointing at him.
“He knows Mommy.”
Victor's face remained controlled, but control was something I understood.
Sometimes too well.
The muscles around his jaw had tightened.
“Everyone out except Marco, Claire, and the girls,” I said.
Nobody moved at first.
“Now.”
Dean and Elias left.
Victor tried to follow.
“Not you.”
His shoulders stiffened.
Marco quietly closed the door.
Ava slid off the counter.
“Dad, what's happening?”
“Nothing you need to worry about.”
She gave me the look only teenagers can give.
“I was locked in a kitchen and nearly had metal stuck through my leg.”
“Nearly?”
Claire glanced at her.
“Let's keep perspective.”
Ava actually gave her the faintest smile.
Interesting.
My daughters trusted this woman more than I realized.
“Claire,” I said, “take them upstairs.”
Harper instantly grabbed Claire's skirt.
“No.”
We all froze again.
Another word.
Clearer this time.
Claire crouched.
“Harper.”
The little girl shook her head.
“No upstairs.”
“Why not?” I asked.
Harper looked toward Victor.
“Bad room.”
Victor took one step backward.
Marco noticed.
So did I.
“What bad room?” I asked.
Harper's eyes moved toward the ceiling.
“My room.”
For three years, I'd believed Harper's silence came from grief.
Doctors told me selective mutism after trauma wasn't unusual.
They said forcing speech could make things worse.
I followed every recommendation.
Created routines.
Reduced stress.
Stayed away when business became dangerous.
I thought I was protecting her.
What if I had been leaving her alone with the reason she remained afraid?
I crossed the kitchen and stood inches from Victor.
“Tell me why my daughter is afraid of her bedroom.”
“I don't know.”
“Wrong answer.”
“I've never been alone in Harper's room.”
Claire spoke from behind me.
“That isn't true.”
Victor turned.
Claire removed her gloves slowly.
“I saw you coming out of the family wing two nights ago.”
“I was doing security rounds.”
“You weren't carrying your radio.”
Victor's expression changed.
Just enough.
Marco noticed too.
“Victor,” he said quietly. “Why didn't you have your radio?”
“I'd left it charging.”
“Security staff don't enter the children's wing without a radio.”
Victor looked at me.
“Boss, you know me.”
“Yes.”
That was the problem.
I knew all of them.
I'd built my organization on people I believed could never be turned.
Someone had been turned.
Maybe more than one.
“What happened in Miami?” Victor asked.
I smiled without humor.
“Interesting question.”
His mistake was immediate.
“What?”
“I didn't tell anyone here something happened in Miami.”
The room went silent.
Victor's eyes narrowed.
“I assumed because you returned early.”
“Did you?”
He said nothing.
I stepped closer.
“Marco, search him.”
Victor moved first.
Not toward me.
Toward Ava.
He grabbed her wrist.
Claire reacted before security did.
She shoved Ava behind the marble island.
Marco slammed Victor against the counter.
The room erupted.
Harper screamed.
I grabbed Victor by the jacket and forced him down.
No guns.
Not around my daughters.
“Enough!”
Victor stopped fighting.
His eyes met mine.
There was hatred there.
Not fear.
Hatred.
That disturbed me more.
“You have no idea what Elena was involved in,” he said.
My blood went cold.
“Don't say her name.”
“You've been worshipping a ghost.”
I hit him.
One punch.
Marco pulled me back.
“Sir.”
Victor laughed through his split lip.
“Ask the maid.”
I turned.
Claire looked stunned.
“What?”
Victor stared at her.
“Ask Claire why Elena chose her.”
Claire went still.
Now I looked at her differently.
“Chose her for what?”
“I don't know what he's talking about.”
“Really?” Victor said. “Tell him your mother's name.”
Claire's face changed.
“Victor.”
That was the first time she used his name.
Not Mr. Shaw.
Victor.
“You know him?” I asked.
“No.”
“But he knows your mother?”
Victor laughed again.
“Better than she thinks.”
Marco handcuffed him.
“Basement holding room?”
“No,” I said. “Secure office.”
Victor smiled.
“You still think walls protect you.”
I stopped.
“What does that mean?”
“Check Harper's room.”
Claire immediately looked at me.
“We should do that now.”
I left Victor with Marco.
Ava insisted on coming.
“No.”
“Dad.”
“Ava.”
She folded her arms.
“You leave me behind every time something bad happens, and bad things keep happening anyway.”
That landed harder than she intended.
Claire put a hand on her shoulder.
“Stay with Marco.”
Then she looked at me.
“I'll go with you.”
We took Harper upstairs.
She refused to let go of Claire.
Her bedroom was exactly as I'd last seen it.
Soft cream walls.
Stuffed animals.
Books.
Night-light.
The framed photograph of Elena beside the bed.
Harper stopped at the doorway.
“Bad.”
I crouched.
“Show me.”
She pointed toward the dollhouse.
A massive custom-built wooden dollhouse Elena had ordered from Vermont before she died.
I'd kept it because Harper loved it.
Claire approached.
“May I?”
Harper nodded.
Claire pulled the dollhouse carefully away from the wall.
Behind it was a small rectangular patch of discolored paint.
My heart accelerated.
I pressed it.
Nothing.
Claire ran her fingers along the molding.
“Here.”
A hidden latch clicked.
Part of the wall opened.
Inside was a narrow compartment.
There was no weapon.
No camera.
Only a small black recorder.
And an envelope.
My name was written across the front.
In Elena's handwriting.
My knees almost gave out.
Three years.
That envelope had been ten feet from where my daughter slept.
I opened it.
There was one line.
Dominic, if you're reading this, they finally found what I hid. Trust the woman Harper trusts. She knows more than she realizes.
I looked at Claire.
Claire stared back at me.
Neither of us spoke.
Then the recorder activated.
A woman's voice filled the room.
My dead wife's voice.
May you like
“Dominic, if Harper has started speaking again, you are running out of time.”
And before the recording continued, every light in Ashford House went out.
