Chapter 1 - The Baby Who Stopped Crying
The first thing anyone taught me about working for Stellan Cross was simple.
Don’t make him notice you.
Mrs. Thornbury had said it on my first morning at the Cross estate while she marched me through a marble hallway that looked more like the lobby of a five-star hotel than part of somebody’s home.
“Mr. Cross appreciates efficiency,” she said.
Her shoes clicked sharply against the floor.
“He does not appreciate excuses, unnecessary conversation, curiosity, lateness, carelessness, or personal problems.”
That was a lot of things for one man not to appreciate.
I kept walking.
Mrs. Thornbury stopped suddenly and turned toward me.
“And when Mr. Cross enters a room, you make yourself useful somewhere else.”
“Understood.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
I did.
Or at least I thought I did.
For three weeks, I followed every rule.
I arrived early.
I worked quietly.
I cleaned rooms that were already cleaner than any place I had ever lived.
I never opened drawers.
Never listened at doors.
Never asked why men in black cars arrived after midnight.
Never questioned why half the staff lowered their voices whenever Stellan Cross’s name came up.
I needed the job too badly.
My daughter, Fern, had been born seven weeks early.
She spent twenty-three days in neonatal care before I was allowed to take her home.
Even after that, everything frightened me.
A cough.
A fever.
A night when she slept too deeply.
An afternoon when she refused half a bottle.
Medical bills had consumed what little money I had saved.
Her father was gone.
My parents were gone.
And the tiny apartment where Fern and I lived cost more every year while somehow becoming smaller.
The Cross estate paid better than anywhere else.
So I followed the rules.
Until Thursday.
At 6:12 that morning, my phone rang.
My babysitter, June, was crying.
Her mother had suffered a stroke.
June was already on her way to the hospital.
“I’m sorry, Selene.”
“Don’t apologize. Go.”
I hung up and stared at Fern.
She was sitting inside her playpen, wearing pink pajamas and chewing the ear of a stuffed rabbit.
I called seven people.
Nobody could take her.
I called in sick once.
Mrs. Thornbury answered.
“We are hosting a private dinner tonight. Every member of staff is required.”
“I understand.”
I looked at Fern again.
My daughter smiled.
And that was how, against every ounce of common sense I possessed, I brought an eleven-month-old baby into the mansion of the most feared man in Chicago.
For the first four hours, it almost worked.
Mrs. Thornbury found an unused staff room near the kitchen where I placed Fern’s portable crib.
I fed her between tasks.
One of the cooks kept checking on her.
Fern slept.
I began thinking maybe I had survived the worst idea I had ever had.
Then noon arrived.
Fern woke screaming.
Not crying.
Screaming.
I hurried down the east corridor carrying her against my chest.
“Shh, sweetheart.”
Fern’s face had turned red.
“I know. Mommy’s here.”
Nothing worked.
Her pacifier hit the floor.
Her bottle didn’t help.
She twisted away from me, crying harder.
Mrs. Thornbury appeared at the end of the corridor.
The blood drained from her face.
“What have you done?”
“I’m sorry.”
“He’s in his office.”
“I’ll take her downstairs.”
“You should have taken her downstairs ten minutes ago.”
Fern screamed again.
Then the office door opened.
Everything inside me stopped.
Stellan Cross stepped into the hallway.
I had seen him before, obviously.
But always at a distance.
He was taller than I remembered.
Dark hair.
Black suit.
No tie loosened.
No shirt collar open.
Nothing casual about him.
A thin scar ran beside his right cheek.
It was one of the few imperfections on a face that otherwise looked carved from stone.
There was something else that day.
A faint reddish mark across two knuckles.
I didn’t ask about it.
His dark eyes moved from Mrs. Thornbury to me.
Then to Fern.
I started talking too fast.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Cross. My babysitter had a family emergency and I couldn’t find anyone, and I know I should have told Mrs. Thornbury earlier, and I can leave immediately. Please, I really need this job, but I understand if—”
“Stop talking.”
I stopped.
Fern didn’t.
Stellan stared at her.
“How old?”
“Eleven months.”
Something moved in his expression.
Not warmth.
Not quite.
Maybe curiosity.
Then he extended his arms.
“Give her to me.”
I thought I had misunderstood him.
“What?”
Mrs. Thornbury looked equally stunned.
Stellan’s gaze shifted to mine.
“Your daughter.”
Fern screamed.
“Give her to me.”
My arms tightened around her automatically.
“She doesn’t like strangers.”
“I gathered that.”
“She really doesn’t let people hold her.”
His eyebrow lifted slightly.
“You believe refusing me while standing in my house is improving this conversation?”
Probably not.
Still, I hesitated.
I had known this man for three weeks.
Technically, I hadn’t known him at all.
But Fern suddenly stopped crying.
Not gradually.
Completely.
Her little body went still.
She stared at Stellan.
Then she blinked.
Once.
Twice.
And smiled.
I looked down at her.
“Fern?”
She reached toward him with both hands.
Mrs. Thornbury whispered something I didn’t hear.
Stellan’s face changed.
Barely.
But enough.
I slowly moved closer.
“If she gets upset—”
“She already is upset.”
I placed Fern into his arms.
What happened next made no sense.
Fern wrapped both arms around Stellan’s neck.
She pressed her cheek against his black jacket.
Then my daughter—the baby who cried when unfamiliar nurses examined her, who refused to sit with neighbors, who once screamed for forty-five minutes because a grocery cashier tried to touch her hand—sighed.
She actually sighed.
Stellan froze.
His arms remained awkwardly positioned around her for several seconds, like nobody had ever trusted him with anything fragile.
Then one hand moved carefully to support her back.
Fern closed her eyes.
Within less than a minute, she fell asleep.
Nobody spoke.
Finally I whispered, “She’s never done that.”
Stellan looked down at her.
His expression was impossible to read.
Then he looked at me.
“Follow me.”
He returned to his office carrying my daughter.
I looked at Mrs. Thornbury.
For perhaps the first time since I met her, she had no instructions.
So I followed him.
His office overlooked downtown Chicago.
Glass windows stretched from floor to ceiling.
The skyline glittered beneath an overcast afternoon sky.
Stellan sat in a leather chair with Fern sleeping against his chest.
He pointed toward the chair opposite him.
I sat.
My hands felt empty without her.
He studied Fern for a long moment.
Then asked, “Where is her father?”
I should have expected the question.
I still hated it.
“Dead.”
His hand stopped against Fern’s back.
“When?”
“Before she was born.”
“What was his name?”
I swallowed.
“Evan.”
Stellan looked at me.
“Last name.”
“Hart.”
His eyes changed.
It was immediate.
“Say that again.”
“Evan Hart.”
He stood so quickly the chair rolled backward.
Fern stirred.
I jumped up.
“Mr. Cross?”
Stellan crossed the office toward a locked cabinet.
He took a key from his pocket.
Opened it.
Removed a framed photograph.
He stared at it once before placing it on the desk between us.
Two young men stood beside an old black car.
One was unmistakably Stellan.
Younger.
Smiling.
Almost unrecognizable because of that smile.
The man beside him had sandy-brown hair, blue eyes, and the same crooked grin I used to wake up beside.
My knees weakened.
“No.”
Stellan said nothing.
I picked up the photograph.
My fingers began trembling.
“No.”
“Who is that?”
I looked at him.
“Evan.”
Stellan’s face became very still.
I pointed at the second man.
“That’s Fern’s father.”
His jaw tightened.
Then he said five words that changed everything.
“He was my younger brother.”
I stared at him.
“That’s impossible.”
“Why?”
“You said was.”
Stellan’s eyes dropped briefly.
“My brother Evan died three years ago.”
The photograph nearly slipped from my hand.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“That’s not possible.”
“It’s not a subject I’m mistaken about.”
My heartbeat sounded painfully loud.
“I met Evan two years ago.”
Stellan stared at me.
“We lived together for almost a year.”
His expression darkened.
“He died fourteen months ago.”
Silence.
Fern moved against his chest.
Stellan looked down.
She opened her bright blue eyes and reached toward his face.
Her tiny fingers touched the scar on his cheek.
He did not pull away.
Then Stellan looked back at me.
“When Fern was born, was a paternity test performed?”
I stared at him.
“No.”
“Did Evan sign anything acknowledging paternity?”
“He died before she was born.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“No.”
“Did you ever meet his family?”
“He said they were dead.”
“Friends?”
“A few coworkers.”
“What company?”
“Lakefront Logistics.”
Stellan’s expression hardened.
“What?”
“That company hasn’t existed in six years.”
My stomach turned.
I stepped backward.
“No.”
Stellan moved toward his desk and picked up his phone.
“What are you doing?”
“Finding out who the man in your life actually was.”
“I know who he was.”
Stellan looked directly at me.
“No, Selene.”
It was the first time he had ever called me by my first name.
“You knew someone who used my dead brother’s identity.”
Fern reached for his lapel.
He automatically steadied her.
Then he made a call.
“Dr. Mercer. I need you at the estate.”
A pause.
“Today.”
Another pause.
“Genetic testing.”
My breath caught.
Stellan ended the call.
“You can’t just test my daughter.”
“No.”
For the first time, his voice softened.
“I need your permission.”
I looked at Fern.
She was staring up at Stellan like she had found somebody familiar.
Somebody safe.
It made no sense.
None of this made sense.
But if the man I had loved had lied about something as basic as his name, then every memory I possessed had become evidence.
I nodded.
“Do it.”
Two days later, Dr. Mercer returned.
He carried a sealed envelope.
Mrs. Thornbury led him into Stellan’s office, then quietly closed the door.
I stood beside the desk holding Fern.
Stellan took the envelope.
He opened it.
Read the first page.
Then the second.
His face changed.
Not anger.
Not confusion.
Shock.
Real shock.
“What?” I whispered.
He looked at Fern.
Then at me.
My heart hammered.
“Tell me.”
Stellan lowered the report.
“Evan wasn’t her father.”
I stared at him.
The room seemed to tilt.
“What are you saying?”
Stellan’s eyes moved back to the laboratory report.
Then he said something even more frightening.
“But Fern is related to me.”
And suddenly the mystery was no longer about a dead man.
May you like
It was about the living ones.
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