Chapter 3 - The Man Who Knew Her Before Ashgrove
The sedan followed them through Providence.
Mave watched it from the passenger seat without saying a word.
Cordelia was busy arguing with her assistant over a dress appointment.
The driver remained oblivious.
Mave tracked every turn.
Left at the bridge.
Straight through the intersection.
A sudden lane change.
The sedan followed.
A second car appeared two blocks later.
Mave felt the old instincts awaken inside her.
Not fear.
Calculation.
Two vehicles.
One primary.
One support.
Professional.
Her fingers tightened around the handle of her handbag.
Cordelia noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You've gone pale.”
“I’m fine.”
The sedan vanished near the shopping district.
Mave did not relax.
“They lost us,” Cordelia said.
“No.”
“What?”
“They didn't.”
Cordelia frowned.
Mave looked through the mirror.
The second car was still there.
It stopped half a block away.
“Who are they?”
Mave didn't answer.
Cordelia stared at her.
“Who are they?”
Mave turned.
“I was trained not to discuss operational concerns.”
Cordelia laughed.
“You're telling me the housekeeper thinks she's some kind of spy?”
Mave looked forward.
“Something like that.”
Hours later, after Cordelia returned to Ashgrove, Mave found Augustine in the library.
“You should not have taken me today.”
He looked up from his papers.
“Why?”
“Someone is watching the house.”
He closed the folder.
“How many?”
“Two vehicles.”
“Description?”
She gave it.
Augustine made one phone call.
Within thirty minutes, he had an answer.
The cars belonged to a private security firm operating under a shell company.
“Who hired them?” Mave asked.
Augustine looked at her.
“Your friend Cordelia.”
Mave closed her eyes.
“I knew it.”
“She wanted to know what you were hiding.”
“She found out.”
“She found less than she thinks.”
Mave sat across from him.
“I need to leave.”
“No.”
“This isn't your problem.”
“It became my problem when someone started watching my house.”
She looked at him.
“Your house?”
He leaned back.
“My house. My employees. My rules.”
She almost smiled.
Then a glass shattered outside.
Both turned.
Gunfire followed.
Mave was moving before Augustine finished standing.
She crossed the room, shoved him down, and pulled the curtain aside by two inches.
One vehicle.
Three men.
One rifle.
Another shot.
Mave grabbed Augustine by the collar.
“Down.”
He followed without argument.
Wendell shouted somewhere in the hallway.
Doors slammed.
Security guards flooded the main corridor.
Within seconds, the entire estate moved as if it had practiced for years.
Mave crawled to the far side of the room.
“You knew this might happen.”
Augustine watched her.
“I suspected.”
“That isn't suspicion.”
“You're right.”
He studied her.
“You moved before the second shot.”
Mave said nothing.
“You recognized the weapon.”
Silence.
“You knew where the shooter was.”
Still silence.
Augustine approached.
“Maeve.”
She looked up.
“Don't.”
The word carried more emotion than she intended.
He stopped.
“I can't go back.”
“You don't have to.”
She stared at him.
Then Azie appeared in the doorway.
His face had changed.
No longer the gardener.
No longer the old veteran.
The posture was different.
The eyes were sharper.
He nodded once at Mave.
“It’s them.”
Augustine looked at him.
“You know who?”
Azie's expression became grim.
“Black Harbor.”
Augustine’s face went still.
“Impossible.”
“They never believed she died.”
Mave looked at Azie.
“I thought we burned everything.”
“We did.”
“Then how?”
Azie glanced at Augustine.
“Because somebody kept one copy.”
Augustine’s mind moved quickly.
“Who?”
Azie didn't answer.
A crash came from the rear entrance.
The security team shouted.
Azie pulled a knife from beneath his shirt.
Augustine looked at it.
“You’ve been trimming hedges with that?”
“Sometimes.”
Mave almost laughed.
It was the first time Augustine had seen the expression on her face.
Then three intruders entered the service corridor.
The guards engaged them.
One broke through.
He rushed toward the library.
Mave met him halfway.
She moved with frightening efficiency.
A shoulder strike.
An elbow.
A sweep.
The man hit the floor.
Another attacker came from behind.
Augustine stepped forward, but Mave was faster.
She disarmed him and pinned him against the wall.
“Who sent you?”
The man spat blood.
“You already know.”
Mave tightened her grip.
“Who?”
He smiled.
“The man whose daughter you couldn't save.”
Mave froze.
The attacker laughed.
“You really thought Juny was dead?”
Everything inside her stopped.
Her fingers loosened.
The man shoved free.
Augustine caught him before he could run.
His expression had transformed.
“You have three seconds.”
The attacker grinned.
“Ask her.”
Augustine slammed him against the wall.
“What did you say?”
But the man had already stopped breathing.
Mave stared at him.
“No.”
Azie stepped closer.
“What did he mean?”
Mave shook her head.
“Juny died.”
Augustine looked at her.
“You're certain?”
“I was there.”
The words cracked something in her.
“I held her.”
Silence.
Azie closed his eyes.
Then he said the thing neither man wanted to hear.
“Then somebody wants you to believe she was there.”
Mave looked at him.
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying we never received a complete record.”
Her breathing became uneven.
“The hospital paperwork—”
“Could have been altered.”
“No.”
“The medical debt was real.”
“Of course it was.”
“The hospital was real.”
She backed away.
“My daughter died.”
Azie didn't argue.
“I know what you believe.”
Mave looked at Augustine.
He was already making calls.
“Where are you going?”
“To Rhode Island General.”
“Why?”
“To find the original records.”
She stared at him.
“You believe me?”
Augustine answered immediately.
“I believe you.”
That sentence mattered more than he knew.
Because for years, everyone had either pitied her or doubted her.
He did neither.
He simply believed her.
Hours later, the medical archive produced a sealed file.
The attending physician had retired.
The records administrator brought the original documents.
The child's name was listed.
Juny Callan.
Date of birth.
Date of admission.
Date of reported death.
But one field was missing.
Cause of death.
The space had been blacked out.
Augustine stared at it.
“Why?”
The administrator swallowed.
“This is unusual.”
Mave whispered.
“No.”
She turned the page.
A handwritten note appeared on the reverse.
TRANSFERRED PER EMERGENCY AUTHORIZATION.
No destination.
No physician signature.
No transport record.
Mave's knees nearly failed.
Augustine caught her.
For several seconds, she allowed herself to lean against him.
Then she whispered:
“She didn't die here.”
Nobody answered.
Because suddenly the fourteen-year-old nightmare had a crack in it.
May you like
And through that crack came a possibility Mave had forbidden herself from imagining.
Juny might have survived.
