Chapter 2 - The Price of My Mother’s Home
My father had been dead for eighteen years.
At least that was what I had believed.
His name was Thomas Carter.
He had died when I was eight.
My mother told me it happened in a highway accident after a late shift. He had worked in accounting, though she rarely spoke about the company. After his death, everything collapsed quickly—our savings, our apartment, my mother’s health.
Years later, the Aldridges had offered her a cottage and offered me work.
I had called it luck.
By the time Cassian Vale's car carried me away from the chapel, I had begun wondering whether luck had anything to do with it.
I changed out of Evelyn's wedding dress before leaving.
One of the chapel attendants found my housekeeping uniform in the garment bag Margaret’s staff had brought.
I had never been happier to put it back on.
Cassian said nothing when I appeared wearing gray cotton instead of silk.
He merely opened the rear door of the black sedan.
“You're not taking me anywhere until I know where my mother is.”
“She’s on her way to St. Vincent’s.”
Fear struck immediately.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
He seemed to recognize that he had phrased it badly.
“She's being examined because moving her without medical clearance would be irresponsible.”
I stared at him.
“You arranged a cardiologist in twenty minutes?”
“Eighteen.”
“That isn't normal.”
“Nothing about today has been normal.”
I almost laughed.
Almost.
Instead, I got into the car.
Cassian sat beside me.
Mateo drove.
For ten minutes neither Cassian nor I spoke.
Finally I said, “Why are you helping me?”
He kept his gaze on the rainy highway.
“I'm helping myself.”
“That sounds more believable.”
He glanced at me.
“You appreciate dishonesty less when it’s wrapped in kindness.”
“I've had practice.”
His jaw tightened slightly.
“I noticed.”
I looked out the window.
“So I'm evidence.”
“For the moment.”
“And my mother?”
“Protected.”
“From Margaret?”
“From anyone who believes threatening her gives them control over you.”
The words landed in an uncomfortable place.
I had spent years telling myself I stayed with the Aldridges because I was responsible.
Because I was loyal.
Because my mother needed me.
But stripped of polite language, the truth sounded uglier.
They had built a cage around someone I loved and convinced me to call it employment.
At the hospital, my mother was furious.
Not frightened.
Furious.
She sat in a private room wearing her favorite faded blue sweater, arguing with a nurse about unnecessary tests.
Then she saw me.
Her anger vanished.
“Lydia.”
I crossed the room and hugged her.
Her thin arms tightened around me.
“I’m okay.”
“You were supposed to be cleaning the ballroom.”
“I know.”
She pulled back.
“Why were you wearing a wedding dress?”
Of course she'd heard everything.
“I'll explain.”
Her eyes moved behind me.
Cassian stood near the doorway.
My mother's hand tightened around mine.
“Oh.”
He inclined his head.
“Mrs. Carter.”
“You're him.”
“I suspect so.”
She stared at the scar in his eyebrow.
“The gangster.”
“Mom.”
“What? That's what the newspapers call him.”
To my shock, Cassian almost smiled.
“Among other things.”
My mother pointed at him.
“If my daughter comes home with one bruise—”
“Mom.”
“—I don't care how many men you have.”
Cassian nodded solemnly.
“Understood.”
She looked at me.
“I don't dislike him.”
“You've known him twelve seconds.”
“Your father made worse first impressions.”
My stomach tightened.
The mention of Dad reminded me why we were there.
“Mom.”
She heard the change in my voice.
“What?”
“Did Dad have an account the Aldridges controlled?”
Color left her face.
I knew the answer before she spoke.
Cassian noticed too.
My mother looked toward the door.
“Could I speak with Lydia alone?”
Cassian nodded immediately.
He and Mateo stepped into the hall.
I closed the door.
“Mom.”
She stared at her hands.
“Your father worked for Charles Aldridge.”
The world tilted.
“What?”
“He wasn't just an accountant.”
“Then what was he?”
“He handled financial records for several Aldridge companies.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because he asked me not to.”
“He’s dead.”
Her eyes filled.
“That's why I didn't tell you.”
I sat beside her.
“What does that mean?”
She shook her head.
“There were problems before he died. Thomas found things in company accounts. Transfers that didn't make sense. Properties bought through shell companies. Money disappearing.”
My mouth went dry.
“Did Charles know?”
“Yes.”
“And Margaret?”
My mother's silence answered.
I stood.
“They knew Dad before we ever moved onto their property.”
“Yes.”
“They didn't rescue us.”
“No.”
The word came out broken.
I stared at her.
“Why did they give us the cottage?”
“After Thomas died, Charles came to me. He said your father's company life insurance had been complicated because of paperwork. He offered financial support.”
“For eighteen years?”
“Less and less every year.”
My entire childhood rearranged itself in seconds.
The birthday gifts.
The cottage.
My first job.
Margaret telling people she had “taken poor Lydia under her wing.”
None of it had been generosity.
“What did Dad find?”
“I don't know everything.”
“Mom.”
“I truly don't.”
Her eyes met mine.
“But three nights before he died, he came home terrified.”
My father had never existed in my memory as a frightened man.
He was laughter.
Pancakes shaped like animals.
Carrying me on his shoulders.
Old jazz records on Sunday mornings.
“What did he say?”
“That if anything happened to him, I must never trust an Aldridge.”
A cold sensation traveled along my arms.
“And then you accepted their house?”
“I had no money. You were eight. I had just begun having heart problems.”
Tears slipped down her cheeks.
“I told myself I would stay for three months.”
She laughed bitterly.
“Then six months. Then a year.”
“And eventually we depended on them.”
“Yes.”
I couldn't be angry with her.
I wanted to.
It would have been easier.
Instead, I understood exactly what she had done.
The same thing I had almost done that morning.
She had sacrificed what she could to keep me safe.
I had nearly sacrificed myself to keep her safe.
The Aldridges had simply learned how to pass cages from one generation to the next.
I returned to the hallway.
Cassian stood alone near the window.
Mateo was farther down speaking on the phone.
Cassian looked at my face.
“She knew.”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Enough.”
I crossed my arms.
“My father worked for Charles Aldridge.”
Cassian's expression became very still.
“What department?”
“Financial records.”
“When?”
“Until eighteen years ago.”
Cassian took out his phone.
“What was the exact date he died?”
I told him.
He typed something.
Thirty seconds later, Mateo walked toward us.
“Already checking.”
“How?” I demanded.
Mateo gave Cassian a glance.
Cassian answered.
“Eighteen years ago was when Charles Aldridge first approached my father about a business partnership.”
I stared at him.
“What kind of partnership?”
“One my father refused.”
“What did it involve?”
Cassian hesitated.
“Money laundering through real estate.”
The hospital corridor seemed suddenly colder.
“My father discovered it?”
“Maybe.”
“Is that why he died?”
“I don't know.”
It was the first answer Cassian had given me that sounded completely unguarded.
“I won't invent certainty because you deserve it.”
I looked at him.
For a man surrounded by rumors, Cassian Vale seemed almost obsessed with precise truth.
Perhaps because people lied to him so often.
Mateo interrupted.
“Boss.”
Cassian turned.
Mateo held out the tablet.
“We traced the account Evelyn accessed.”
My heartbeat accelerated.
He showed us a transfer record.
The account had existed for nineteen years.
It was registered through a trust.
The beneficiary name read:
LYDIA E. CARTER.
Balance before withdrawal:
$2,840,611.
I stared at the screen.
“That isn't mine.”
Mateo nodded.
“Legally, it appears to be.”
My knees nearly gave way.
Cassian caught my elbow.
I pulled away automatically.
He released me immediately.
“Sorry.”
I barely heard him.
“Two million?”
“Nearly three.”
“But Evelyn only took forty thousand.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Mateo changed the screen.
“She didn't steal it.”
I stared.
“What do you mean?”
“The transfer was authorized by someone with trustee access.”
“Who?”
Mateo looked at Cassian.
Then at me.
“Margaret Aldridge.”
The hospital seemed to disappear.
Margaret hadn't just known about my father’s money.
She had controlled it.
All those years she had reminded me how expensive my mother’s care was.
All those times I had thanked her.
All those nights I had worked overtime because I thought I owed the Aldridges everything.
They had been spending pennies from an account that already belonged to me.
Cassian's face became frighteningly calm.
“How much has been withdrawn over the years?”
Mateo hesitated.
“A lot.”
“How much?”
“Preliminary total?”
“Yes.”
“One-point-seven million.”
I couldn't breathe.
Cassian took the tablet.
“Where did it go?”
“Mostly through Aldridge-linked entities.”
I stared at the numbers.
My father's money.
My mother’s medical bills.
Our cottage.
My salary.
They had stolen from us, then used fragments of what remained to buy our gratitude.
I whispered, “I want to go back.”
Cassian looked at me.
“To the Aldridge estate?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
Anger surged.
“You said I had choices.”
“You do.”
“Then I choose to go.”
“And I choose not to help you walk into a house belonging to people who just tried to sell you at an altar.”
“I need answers.”
“You need information.”
“Same thing.”
“No.”
His voice hardened.
“Answers are what angry people demand before they're ready to hear them.”
I stepped closer.
“You don't know anything about me.”
“You're right.”
His gaze didn't leave mine.
“But I know what rage looks like five minutes before someone makes a decision they can't undo.”
For a moment neither of us spoke.
Then Mateo's phone rang.
He answered.
His expression changed.
“When?”
Cassian watched him.
“What happened?”
Mateo ended the call.
“The Aldridge estate is empty.”
“What?”
“Charles and Margaret are gone.”
My stomach dropped.
“And Evelyn?”
“No sign of her.”
Cassian’s jaw tightened.
Mateo wasn't finished.
“There’s something else.”
He turned the tablet.
A security camera image appeared.
It showed Margaret leaving the estate twenty minutes earlier carrying a leather document case.
Beside her walked a man I recognized.
I had seen him almost every day for nine years.
Richard Hale.
The Aldridge family attorney.
The same lawyer who had handled my mother's housing agreement.
And according to Mateo, the same lawyer listed as co-trustee on my father’s account.
Cassian looked at me.
“This wasn't Margaret acting alone.”
“No.”
I stared at Richard’s face on the screen.
“He knew everything.”
Mateo zoomed in.
Richard carried one more object beneath his arm.
A faded red file box.
My mother, who had quietly opened the hospital-room door behind us, made a sound.
I turned.
She had gone white.
“What?”
She pointed at the image.
“That box.”
“What about it?”
Her lips trembled.
“It belonged to your father.”
And suddenly the money wasn't the only thing the Aldridges had been hiding for eighteen years.
They had kept my father’s records.
Which meant somewhere inside that red box might be the answer to the question I had been too young to ask when I was eight.
May you like
Whether Thomas Carter’s death had truly been an accident.
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