Chapter 4 - The Garden Beneath the Snow
The place where Julian first asked Elena to dance was not a ballroom.
It was not a restaurant.
It was a greenhouse.
Corsini House had once contained a glass conservatory at the eastern edge of the gardens.
A winter storm damaged it fifteen years earlier.
Julian had ordered the structure demolished and replaced with a rose garden.
Now, beneath two feet of Massachusetts earth, something Elena buried twenty-three years earlier might still exist.
Unfortunately, someone else was already digging.
We saw the disturbed soil before we reached the roses.
Martin crouched.
“Fresh.”
Julian’s jaw hardened.
A narrow section beside the old stone foundation had been opened.
Whoever came here had known exactly where to search.
Daniel grabbed a shovel.
Julian took another.
I stayed near the garden path while Martin contacted security.
Within minutes, metal struck metal.
Daniel dropped to his knees.
Together they uncovered a rusted tin container.
The lock had already been broken.
Julian opened it.
Empty.
Whoever came before us had taken the ledger.
But not everything.
At the bottom was a torn piece of paper.
Daniel carefully unfolded it.
Only half a message remained.
If Vincent’s son ever finds this, tell him his father never intended—
The rest was missing.
Martin stared at it.
“My father.”
Julian studied him.
Martin had spent the past hour looking like a man whose identity had been dismantled.
Daniel crossed his arms.
“You genuinely didn’t know?”
“No.”
“You worked for Julian’s family for fifteen years.”
“My mother told me Patrick Doyle was my father.”
“Maybe she lied.”
Martin’s face hardened.
“Watch yourself.”
Daniel stepped closer.
“So now you believe family matters?”
Julian moved between them.
“Enough.”
Daniel laughed bitterly.
“You don’t get to say enough.”
“Maybe not.”
That stopped him.
Julian continued quietly.
“But if we start fighting one another, whoever took that ledger wins.”
I looked toward the empty metal box.
“Who knew about this greenhouse?”
Julian answered immediately.
“Elena. Me. Vincent.”
“Anyone else?”
He thought.
“The gardener who worked here then.”
“Alive?”
“No.”
“What about family?”
Julian hesitated.
“My sister.”
Everyone looked at him.
I had never heard Julian mention a sister.
Daniel’s surprise mirrored mine.
“You have a sister?”
“Had.”
Julian’s expression closed.
“Isabella died twenty years ago.”
“How?”
“Car accident.”
Martin suddenly looked uncomfortable.
Julian noticed.
“What?”
Martin shook his head.
“Nothing.”
“Martin.”
The security chief stared at the ground.
“There was something Vincent told me years ago.”
Julian stepped closer.
“What?”
“He said Isabella’s crash wasn’t an accident.”
Silence.
Julian’s voice dropped.
“Why did you never tell me?”
“Because he was drunk and angry. I assumed he was trying to hurt you.”
“What exactly did he say?”
Martin closed his eyes briefly.
“He said Isabella died because she couldn’t keep her mouth shut.”
Julian’s face emptied.
Daniel looked toward the disturbed earth.
“Maybe Isabella knew about my mother.”
Julian whispered, “She did.”
He turned away.
“When Elena disappeared, Isabella kept insisting something was wrong. She told me Father and Vincent were hiding information.”
“Did you believe her?” I asked.
“No.”
One word.
Heavy with regret.
Julian had spent twenty-three years living inside mistakes manufactured by other people.
Now every mistake was returning at once.
---
That evening, Corsini House felt different.
More guards.
More locked doors.
More shadows.
Martin discovered Eddie Palmer had withdrawn twelve thousand dollars in cash before disappearing.
His phone was off.
His last known location was near Providence.
Daniel reluctantly agreed to stay at the mansion until they found him.
Julian gave him a room on the third floor.
Not the family wing.
Daniel had made that very clear.
I tried returning to work.
Normal things felt comforting.
Fresh linens.
Polished glass.
Flowers trimmed precisely.
But when I entered the drawing room, the record player was still sitting where I had left it.
I stared at it.
That ridiculous night felt like a lifetime ago.
“You stopped.”
Julian’s voice came from behind me.
I turned.
He stood in the doorway.
“Stopped what?”
“Dancing.”
I looked away.
“You ruined it.”
“I wasn’t criticizing.”
“You installed secret cameras.”
“For a thief.”
“And accidentally collected four minutes of evidence that I should never consume champagne alone.”
Julian came farther into the room.
“It was one glass.”
“How do you know?”
“I watched the footage.”
I groaned.
“There is no escaping this, is there?”
“No.”
He almost smiled again.
Then the expression faded.
“I’m sorry.”
I blinked.
“For the cameras?”
“For involving you.”
“You didn’t.”
“Someone searched your apartment.”
“That wasn’t your choice.”
“You’re in my house. It becomes my responsibility.”
I leaned against the piano.
“You take responsibility for everything?”
“Yes.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is.”
The answer was surprisingly human.
For a moment neither of us spoke.
Then I asked the question I had been avoiding.
“Do you believe Daniel?”
Julian looked toward the windows.
“I believe the documents.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
His jaw tightened.
“Yes.”
“You think he’s your son?”
“Yes.”
“How does that feel?”
Julian laughed once.
Softly.
Without humor.
“I don’t have a word for it.”
I understood.
Some emotions were too large for language.
I studied him.
“Do you want him to be?”
Julian met my eyes.
“Yes.”
That answer came immediately.
Something inside me softened.
I had spent months believing Julian Corsini was made of cold discipline and expensive suits.
But cold people didn’t keep train tickets for twenty-three years.
Cold people didn’t watch ridiculous dancing twice.
Cold people didn’t look broken because they had missed their child’s entire life.
Julian stepped closer.
“You should leave.”
“What?”
“Corsini House.”
I stared at him.
“You’re firing me?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
“Because whoever is doing this has noticed you.”
“I need this job.”
“I’ll continue paying you.”
My pride rose instantly.
“No.”
“Sadie—”
“I don’t take charity.”
“It isn’t charity.”
“What would you call being paid for not working?”
“Protection.”
“Same thing with better tailoring.”
Julian sighed.
“You are extraordinarily difficult.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
He moved closer.
Now only a few feet separated us.
“You don’t understand the people involved.”
“And you don’t understand my situation.”
“I know about the debt.”
“That doesn’t mean you understand it.”
“I could eliminate it tomorrow.”
The words stunned me.
I stared at him.
“You could what?”
“Pay it.”
My anger arrived before common sense.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I work for you.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t belong to you.”
His expression changed.
“I never said you did.”
“Money makes complicated things.”
Julian looked almost offended.
“I would never use it that way.”
“I know.”
And I did.
That was the problem.
I trusted him more than I should.
His eyes held mine.
The room became strangely quiet.
Then the security alarm sounded.
Once.
Twice.
Martin’s voice came through Julian’s phone.
“West gate. We found Eddie.”
---
Eddie Palmer wasn’t running.
He was unconscious inside his own car.
The vehicle had been abandoned outside the gate.
No major injuries.
No sign of struggle.
A note had been taped to his chest.
Martin removed it carefully.
Julian read it.
HE STOLE FROM THE WRONG FAMILY.
Eddie regained consciousness twenty minutes later.
He was confused.
Terrified.
Julian crouched beside the open car door.
“Who hired you?”
Eddie shook his head.
“I can’t.”
Julian’s voice remained calm.
“You came into my house. You took objects belonging to Elena Marchetti. Someone attacked you and dumped you at my gate. You’re safer talking to me than staying silent.”
Eddie looked around.
Then at Daniel.
His eyes widened.
“You found him.”
Daniel stepped closer.
“You knew my mother?”
Eddie began crying.
That frightened me more than anger would have.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“I didn’t know what they planned.”
Julian’s face hardened.
“Who?”
Eddie whispered a name.
Not Vincent.
Not a Corsini.
Someone I knew.
Someone who had been inside the mansion every day since I arrived.
Eddie looked directly at me.
“The cook.”
I felt the ground tilt.
Mrs. Evelyn Hart.
Sixty-two years old.
Warm smile.
Baked cinnamon bread every Sunday.
The woman who had told me about the missing objects.
Eddie swallowed.
“She’s not who you think she is.”
Julian demanded, “Who is she?”
Eddie whispered:
May you like
“Elena Marchetti’s sister.”
---
