Mrs. Gable

Before they could leave, before the jet could take them to the source of the rot in Ohio, Claire needed one more piece. The truth about the past was in the letters, but the truth about the present—about who had helped Lena survive the transition—was closer.

She remembered the name on the emergency contact card. *Mrs. Gable.*

The retired housekeeper was in a memory care facility thirty minutes away, a place paid for by the Vance Trust. Arthur kept his secrets well-funded.

"We have to stop," Claire said, unbuckling her seatbelt. The jet hadn't even finished taxiing.

"What?" David grabbed her arm. "Claire, no. We're in the air. We're safe."

"We're not safe," she said. "We're flying blind. I need to talk to Mrs. Gable. She was there, David. She was the tertiary contact. She knew Lena wasn't Evelyn."

"She has dementia," David argued. "She won't remember anything."

"She remembered enough to take the hush money," Claire said. "And she might remember enough to tell us where the bodies are buried."

She looked at the pilot. "Turn around. Let me off."

David stared at her, his face a mask of panic. "You can't go back there. Arthur will be looking for you."

"He's looking for *us*," Claire said. "Together. If I go alone, I'm just a ghost."

She touched his face.

"Stay with the girls. Go to Ohio. Find Mary Kovac. I'll meet you there."

She got off the plane. She took Aris's car.

The drive to the nursing home was a blur of rain and adrenaline. The facility was quiet, smelling of antiseptic and lavender. Claire flashed her Power of Attorney at the night nurse, claiming a family emergency.

Mrs. Gable was in room 304. She was awake, sitting in a chair by the window, staring at the rain. She looked small, frail, a husk of the formidable woman who had run the Vance household with an iron fist.

"Mrs. Gable?" Claire whispered.

The old woman turned. Her eyes were milky, unfocused.

"Evelyn?" she asked.

Claire froze. "No. I'm Claire. David's wife."

Mrs. Gable frowned. "David is a baby. He needs his milk."

"David is grown up," Claire said, kneeling beside the chair. She pulled out her phone and opened the photo gallery. She found a picture of the imposter—Lena Kovac, dressed as Evelyn Vance, smiling at a gala in 1995.

"Do you know who this is?"

Mrs. Gable leaned forward. She squinted at the screen.

Her expression changed. The confusion vanished, replaced by a sudden, sharp venom.

"That's the whore," she spat.

Claire’s heart hammered. "Who is she, Mrs. Gable?"

"The one Arthur brought home," Mrs. Gable said, her voice trembling with ancient rage. "The one from the agency. She couldn't even cook. She didn't know how to set a table."

"Did she... did she try to be Evelyn?"

"She tried," Mrs. Gable scoffed. "She wore the clothes. She sat in the chair. But she wasn't her. She was... common."

She looked at Claire, her eyes suddenly lucid.

"She wore the mistress's clothes while the mistress was still warm."

"What do you mean?" Claire asked, her voice barely a whisper. "What happened to the mistress? What happened to the real Evelyn?"

Mrs. Gable leaned back, her gaze drifting to the window again.

"She went to the garden," she said softly. "She went to plant the bulbs. She never came back."

"Did Arthur hurt her?"

"Arthur?" Mrs. Gable laughed, a dry, rattling sound. "Arthur didn't get his hands dirty. He had the boy do it."

"The boy?" Claire asked. "David?"

"No," Mrs. Gable said. "The other one. The one who came with the new wife."

Claire stared at her. "There was another boy?"

"Of course," Mrs. Gable said, closing her eyes. "The one in the basement. The one who screamed."