Chapter 17: Interrupted

I froze, my back pressed against the cold studio wall, the sketchbook clutched to my chest like a shield. Richard was outside. Not the charming husband who bought me diamonds, but the man Catherine had painted with his face obscured.

"Elena?" His voice was closer now. The handle of the attic door rattled. "I know you're in there. I saw the light under the door."

My eyes darted around the room. There was no other exit. Just the locked door and the narrow service stairs behind it.

"Go away, Richard," I said, my voice sounding braver than I felt.

"Open the door, El. We need to talk."

"Talk about what? About the Cayman accounts? About the house in Nevada? Or about your wife?"

Silence. Heavy and suffocating.

Then, a sigh. "You shouldn't have dug this deep. It's complicated."

"Complicated? It's fraud, Richard! It's bigamy!"

"It's survival!" he snapped, abandoning the pretense of calm. "Do you have any idea what it takes to keep this family afloat? To keep Eleanor happy?"

"So you stole my identity? You forged my signature?"

"We borrowed it. Just for a while. Until the market turned."

"Borrowed," I scoffed. I moved toward the door, intending to confront him, to scream in his face. But then I saw it.

Wedged under a stack of canvases in the corner was a cardboard box. Old, water-stained. It looked out of place in the active studio.

I moved the paintings aside. The box was labeled *Mrs. Higgins - Personal.*

Mrs. Higgins. The housekeeper Eleanor had fired. The one who told me to find Julian.

"Elena, open the door or I'm coming in," Richard warned. He threw his shoulder against the wood. The old hinges groaned in protest.

I ripped the box open. It was filled with letters. Photos. And a small, leather-bound diary.

I flipped it open. The handwriting was neat, precise.

*October 14, 1999. The baby came early. Eleanor is furious. She says it ruins the merger. She says Catherine has to choose.*

*October 15, 1999. They took him. Eleanor took him. She told Catherine he died. But I heard him crying.*

My hands shook so hard I nearly dropped the book.

Richard slammed against the door again. The wood splintered around the lock. One more hit and he'd be inside.

I shoved the diary into my waistband. I looked at the vent above the desk. The one Catherine had drawn.

I climbed onto the desk. The grate was loose, held by only two screws. I pulled it free, a shower of dust raining down on me.

"Elena!"

Crash. The door flew open.

Richard stumbled into the room, breathless, his eyes wild. He scanned the studio, spotting me instantly.

"Get down from there," he ordered.

"No."

"Elena, please. You don't understand. If Eleanor finds out you know about the baby..."

"What baby, Richard? Your son? Or your nephew?"

His face went white.

"Don't," he whispered. "Don't say it."

Behind him, a shadow moved in the doorway. It was Mrs. Higgins. She was holding a heavy brass candlestick from the hallway.

"Run, child," she hissed.

She swung the candlestick, connecting hard with the back of Richard's head. He crumpled to the floor without a sound.

Mrs. Higgins looked up at me, her face grim. "Go. The vent leads to the roof. Don't come back until you have the police."

"Mrs. Higgins—"

"Go!"

I scrambled into the vent, the metal cold against my stomach. As I crawled into the darkness, I heard Mrs. Higgins' voice echoing from below.

"Be careful, Ma'am. Some dust is best left settled."