Chapter 37: The Housekeeper's Secret

Mrs. Higgins’ purse was a treasure trove of mundane secrets. A roll of butterscotch candies. A rosary. A folded recipe for lemon pound cake. And the phone, glowing with the evidence of her complicity.

*They are at the park.*

Which park? There were a dozen in the city, but only one where Mrs. Higgins would feel safe taking children who weren't supposed to be seen.

The old botanical gardens on the south side. It was overgrown, neglected, and miles away from the Vane’s social circle. It was where she used to take Richard when he was a boy, to hide from Eleanor’s rages.

I shoved the phone into my own bag, along with the silver polish—a heavy glass bottle that felt like a weapon.

"Elena!" Eleanor’s voice was closer now. The wheelchair whirred in the hallway.

I didn't wait. I bolted out the back door, past the caterers dismantling the tents, and into the dense shrubbery that lined the driveway.

I reached my car, parked behind the guest house where Greta had hidden me. The metal box was still under the seat.

I started the engine, praying the noise wouldn't alert the guards. But the estate was in chaos. Security was focused on the perimeter, looking for an intruder who had already left. They weren't looking for the wife in the family SUV.

I sped down the service road, the tires kicking up gravel.

Twenty minutes. That's how long it would take to get to the gardens. Twenty minutes for Richard to realize I wasn't coming out. Twenty minutes for Eleanor to track Mrs. Higgins.

I drove like a maniac, weaving through traffic, running red lights. My phone buzzed incessantly. Richard. Eleanor. Marcus.

I ignored them all.

I pulled up to the rusted iron gates of the botanical gardens. The parking lot was empty save for a single, sensible sedan. Mrs. Higgins’ car.

I grabbed my purse and ran inside.

The gardens were a maze of overgrown ivy and crumbling statues. I listened for the sound of children playing, but the air was silent. Heavy.

"Leo? Sam?"

Nothing.

I ran toward the old conservatory, the glass panes dusty and cracked.

And then I saw them.

Mrs. Higgins was sitting on a stone bench near the fountain. She wasn't watching the boys. She was staring at her hands, which were folded in her lap. She was weeping.

The boys were nowhere in sight.

"Mrs. Higgins!"

She looked up, her face a mask of grief. "Ma'am. You shouldn't be here."

"Where are they? Where are my sons?"

She pointed a trembling finger toward the conservatory.

"He took them," she whispered.

"Who? Richard?"

"No," she said, her voice breaking. "Not Richard. The other one."

"Julian?"

She shook her head. "Julian is gone, Ma'am. He's been gone for twenty years."

"I saw him," I insisted. "In the woods. He gave me the photo."

"You saw a ghost," she said. "Or you saw what you wanted to see. The man in the woods... that wasn't Julian."

"Then who was it?"

She looked at me, her eyes filled with a terrifying pity.

"It was the man who tried to stop the wedding. The first one. The one in 1999."

"Who?"

"The father," she whispered. "The real father."