Chapter 1 - The Little Fairy Who Saved His Life
“I’ll give you three wishes.”
Nathan Mercer looked up from the whiskey he had not yet touched.
The girl in his doorway was six years old, maybe forty pounds in winter clothes, and wearing fairy wings that had clearly lost a fight with a kitchen chair.
One wing leaned left. The other sagged behind her shoulder. Silver glitter had been rubbed across her cheeks with such enthusiasm that some of it had reached one eyebrow. In her right hand she held a wand made from a barbecue skewer with a paper star taped to the end.
Her name was Ellie Walsh.
Her mother cleaned the upstairs rooms of Nathan’s house.
And Ellie was absolutely not supposed to be inside his study.
Especially tonight.
Downstairs, almost two hundred guests moved through Mercer House beneath chandeliers and strings of warm autumn lights. The annual October benefit had become one of those events respectable people attended while pretending not to know precisely who Nathan Mercer was.
Officially, he owned freight yards, construction companies, two hotels and enough commercial property to fill several tax accountants with despair.
Unofficially, men lowered their voices when they said his name.
Nathan was thirty-eight.
He had spent eleven years learning that fear was cheaper than loyalty and usually lasted longer.
“Three wishes?” he asked.
Ellie nodded solemnly.
“Why three?”
“Because one is cheap.”
Nathan almost smiled.
Almost.
“That so?”
“Three means you’re serious.”
She walked into the room without being invited.
Near the fireplace, Atlas lifted his head.
The old English mastiff had belonged to Nathan’s younger brother before becoming, by the brutal mathematics of death, Nathan’s dog. At thirteen, Atlas moved as if every joint had negotiated a separate treaty with gravity. His muzzle had gone white. One eye clouded at the edge.
But he still watched doors.
He watched Ellie now, then put his chin back between his paws.
“You know,” Nathan said, “people normally wait until I tell them they can come in.”
Ellie considered that.
“Mama waits.”
“Your mother is wise.”
“She’s scared of you.”
That stopped him.
Children did not understand the value of strategic silence.
Or maybe they understood it perfectly and simply saw no reason to use it.
Nathan leaned back.
“Is she?”
“She says no.”
“Then perhaps you should believe her.”
“I do.”
Ellie glanced at the amber whiskey on his desk.
“But she checks her face in the little mirror before she talks to you.”
Nathan said nothing.
That tiny observation slid somewhere beneath his ribs.
He looked at the girl more carefully.
“What would a fairy like you want from me?”
“No. You get the wishes.”
“I already have everything.”
Ellie frowned.
“That’s what lonely people say when they don’t want anybody asking questions.”
This time Nathan did smile.
It came unexpectedly and vanished quickly.
Ten years ago, his brother Owen could have produced that smile.
After Owen died, very few people could.
“What’s the first wish, then?”
Ellie pointed her wand at his drink.
“You have to drink mine instead.”
She dug into the pocket of her dress and produced a small apple juice box, slightly crushed.
Nathan stared at it.
“You’re giving me apple juice.”
“It’s good.”
“And what happens to my whiskey?”
“You don’t drink it.”
“Why?”
“Atlas doesn’t like it.”
Nathan’s eyes moved toward the fireplace.
The dog was no longer resting.
Atlas had raised his head again.
His cloudy eyes were fixed on Nathan’s desk.
Nathan reached for the tumbler.
The dog stood.
Not quickly.
Not dramatically.
He simply rose, stiff-legged and silent.
Nathan curled his fingers around the glass.
Atlas growled.
It was so low Nathan felt it more than heard it.
Ellie whispered, “See?”
Nathan looked at the whiskey.
Then at the dog.
Then at the child.
He had survived most of his adult life because he respected information even when he disliked the source.
He set the glass down.
“Fine.”
Ellie held out the juice.
“A trade.”
He accepted it.
Her entire face brightened.
Behind her came hurried footsteps.
“Ellie!”
Clara Walsh appeared in the doorway, breathless.
She wore the black uniform the household staff used during formal events. Her blond hair had escaped its knot around her temples. A folded sheet was still clutched in one hand.
When she saw her daughter inside Nathan Mercer’s private study, the color left her face.
“Mr. Mercer, I’m so sorry. Mrs. Hargrove needed fresh towels and I told Ellie to wait by the kitchen, and—”
“It’s fine.”
Clara stopped.
Nathan rarely needed to repeat himself.
He looked at Ellie.
“The fairy and I are conducting business.”
Clara stared.
Ellie nodded.
“Three wishes.”
“Of course,” Clara whispered faintly.
Nathan pressed the intercom on his desk.
“Cal.”
His head of security answered immediately.
“Yes?”
“Come upstairs.”
Cal Rourke arrived less than a minute later.
Tall, pale-haired, forty-one, with the permanently tired eyes of a man who trusted nothing that could open or close.
Nathan indicated the whiskey.
“Take that downstairs.”
Cal looked at Atlas.
Then at Ellie.
Then back at Nathan.
He asked no questions.
Nathan added, “Quietly.”
Cal wrapped the glass in a cloth and left.
Clara’s face tightened.
She understood enough not to ask.
Nathan turned to her.
“Stay with Ellie.”
“Sir?”
“Until Cal comes back.”
The music downstairs continued.
Glasses chimed.
A woman laughed beneath them.
Nathan’s fiancée, Vivian Cole, was hosting the gala in the ballroom. She had chosen the flowers, the menu, the musicians, even the old bottle Nathan had poured from twenty minutes earlier.
Vivian liked precision.
Nathan had once mistaken that quality for strength.
Eight minutes passed.
Cal returned.
He shut the study door.
“What?”
Cal glanced at the child.
Nathan’s voice sharpened.
“Say it.”
“There’s enough sedative in that glass to put you unconscious for hours.”
Clara covered her mouth.
Nathan did not move.
“Dangerous?”
“With the amount you normally drink? Possibly. Probably not fatal. Whoever did it likely wanted you alive.”
Downstairs, applause suddenly rolled through the ballroom.
Some speech had ended.
Nathan listened to two hundred people clap while standing in a room where somebody had just tried to erase several hours from his life.
“Who handled the bottle?”
“Four people.”
“Names.”
“The sommelier. Wallace from service. Me, when it came from the cellar.”
Cal hesitated.
“And Vivian.”
Clara looked at the floor.
Nathan’s face remained still.
He had learned long ago that suspicion was most useful before the suspect knew it existed.
“No lockdown,” he said.
Cal frowned.
“Nate—”
“No visible changes. Nobody leaves unexpectedly. Nobody gets questioned. Put the glass somewhere safe.”
Cal nodded.
Nathan pointed toward Ellie.
“And nobody discusses why we tested it.”
Ellie was busy peeling the paper from her straw.
Nathan looked down at her.
“You may have saved my life.”
She shrugged.
“Atlas did.”
Atlas settled slowly beside her feet.
Nathan crouched until he was closer to her height.
“Then I owe you a second wish.”
Ellie became very serious.
“Oh.”
“You hadn’t planned this far?”
“I had.”
That bothered him more than it should have.
“What is it?”
Ellie lowered her wand.
“Don’t fire my mama tomorrow.”
The room became silent.
Clara closed her eyes.
Nathan slowly stood.
“What?”
“It’s my second wish.”
“Ellie,” Clara said.
“No.”
The child turned toward her mother.
“You said wishes only work if you say them out loud.”
“I said that about birthday candles.”
“Same thing.”
Nathan looked at the paper in Clara’s hand.
“Give me that.”
Clara’s fingers tightened around it.
“It isn’t important.”
“Clara.”
She hesitated.
Nathan extended his hand.
Eventually she surrendered the page.
He unfolded it.
The Mercer household letterhead sat across the top.
Effective October 19, Clara Walsh’s employment will be terminated due to restructuring ahead of the Mercer-Cole marriage.
There was a signature at the bottom.
Nathan Mercer.
Nathan stared at it.
It looked like his signature.
It was not.
“When did you receive this?”
“This afternoon.”
“From whom?”
“Mrs. Cole.”
Vivian.
Nathan looked toward the ceiling as though he could see through the floor to the ballroom below.
“Did she tell you I approved it?”
Clara nodded.
“She said the household structure would change after the wedding.”
“What else?”
Clara said nothing.
Nathan stepped closer.
“What else did Vivian say?”
Ellie answered.
“She said Mama doesn’t know her place.”
“Ellie.”
“She did.”
Nathan watched Clara.
“Is that true?”
Clara’s embarrassment told him before she nodded.
Nathan folded the letter.
“You are not fired.”
Clara exhaled.
“Mr. Mercer—”
“You will not be fired tomorrow, next week or because Vivian Cole decides to sign my name.”
Ellie raised both arms.
“Wish number two!”
For the first time that evening, Nathan laughed.
Not much.
But Clara heard it.
Her eyes changed.
That irritated him more than it should have.
Nathan had noticed Clara Walsh before.
It would have been impossible not to.
She had worked in Mercer House for almost nine months.
Twenty-nine.
Widowed.
Quiet.
Always early.
Never stole.
Never gossiped.
Never flirted.
The last quality made her unusual inside a house where half the staff seemed convinced a widowed crime boss with a fortune and a pulse represented a career opportunity.
Clara treated him exactly the way she treated the antique furniture.
Respectfully.
Carefully.
And with a subtle awareness that both could probably crush her if handled incorrectly.
Nathan had never resented it.
Until Ellie told him Clara checked her face before speaking to him.
He disliked imagining her frightened.
“Cal.”
“Yes?”
“Find out who prepared this termination letter.”
Cal accepted it.
“And the signature?”
“Forgery.”
His expression hardened.
Nathan looked back at Clara.
“Why would Vivian want you gone?”
“I don’t know.”
That was a lie.
He knew immediately.
Most people became worse liars around Nathan because fear encouraged too much explanation.
Clara became quieter.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Clara.”
“I saw something I probably wasn’t supposed to see.”
Cal stopped moving.
Nathan’s attention sharpened.
“When?”
“Four nights ago.”
“Where?”
“The west hallway.”
Nobody used the west hallway.
Not anymore.
At the end of it was Owen’s bedroom.
Nathan had left it almost untouched for ten years.
“What did you see?”
Clara looked at Ellie.
Nathan understood.
“Ellie.”
The girl straightened.
“Yes?”
“Would you take Atlas to the sitting room and explain fairy business to him?”
She narrowed her eyes.
“You’re sending me away.”
“Yes.”
“Because grown-ups lie better when kids leave.”
Cal coughed to hide a laugh.
Nathan stared at the child.
“You still have a third wish.”
Ellie considered that.
“Okay.”
She took Atlas gently by the collar.
The old dog followed.
At the doorway, Ellie looked back.
“I’m saving the last one.”
“For what?”
She shrugged.
“For when you really need it.”
Then she disappeared.
Nathan waited until her footsteps faded.
“What did you see, Clara?”
She inhaled.
“Mrs. Cole coming out of your brother’s room.”
Everything inside Nathan went still.
“What?”
“She didn’t know I was there.”
“You’re certain it was Owen’s room?”
“Yes.”
“What was she doing?”
“I don’t know. But she had something in her hand.”
“What?”
“A small metal box.”
Nathan looked at Cal.
Cal’s expression mirrored his own confusion.
Owen had kept a metal document box beneath his desk.
Nathan had searched it after the funeral.
It contained photographs, expired passports, old baseball cards and letters from women Nathan had never met.
Nothing dangerous.
At least that was what Nathan had believed.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Clara laughed once, nervously.
“Because I'm a housekeeper who found your fiancée inside your dead brother’s locked bedroom.”
“It wasn't locked?”
“It was when I cleaned the hallway the week before.”
Nathan looked at Cal.
“Who has keys?”
“You. Me.”
Cal frowned.
“Mrs. Hargrove has a master.”
“Vivian?”
“No.”
Nathan’s stomach tightened.
Clara continued.
“She saw me. She asked what I was doing.”
“What did you say?”
“That I was replacing flowers in the corridor.”
“And then?”
“She smiled.”
Clara’s arms folded unconsciously around herself.
“She said after the wedding, certain members of staff would no longer be necessary.”
“And today you received this.”
“Yes.”
Nathan looked at the forged termination letter again.
The sedated whiskey suddenly felt less like an isolated attack.
Vivian had entered Owen’s room.
Clara witnessed it.
Vivian attempted to remove Clara.
And tonight, someone tried to drug Nathan unconscious inside a mansion full of people.
“Cal.”
“Yes?”
“Find Wallace.”
Cal left.
Nathan stepped toward the fireplace.
Atlas had spent ten years refusing to enter Owen’s bedroom.
After Owen died, Nathan had tried once.
The dog had planted himself in the hallway and cried.
Not barked.
Cried.
Nathan never forced him again.
“What exactly did Vivian take?” he asked.
“I couldn't see clearly.”
“Shape?”
“About this large.”
Clara held her hands perhaps ten inches apart.
Nathan knew the box.
Owen’s box.
“What happened to your husband?”
The question surprised Clara.
Her expression changed.
“Why?”
“You’re widowed.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Car accident.”
“When?”
“Two years ago.”
“Name?”
“Daniel Walsh.”
Cal’s voice suddenly came through Nathan’s phone before Clara could say more.
“Boss.”
Nathan answered.
“Did you find Wallace?”
“No.”
“Where is he?”
“His car is still here. Coat too.”
Nathan frowned.
“Then find him.”
“There’s something else.”
“What?”
“I checked the cellar camera.”
Nathan waited.
“Vivian went downstairs at eight fourteen.”
The whiskey had been brought upstairs at eight twenty-two.
“With Wallace?”
“No.”
“Alone?”
Cal paused.
“No.”
Nathan's instincts sharpened.
“Who was with her?”
“Your uncle.”
Patrick Mercer.
Nathan slowly turned toward the ballroom below.
Patrick was his father’s younger brother.
Sixty-two.
Senior adviser.
The man who had stood beside Nathan at Owen’s funeral.
The man who had helped Nathan rebuild the family businesses after his brother died.
The man Nathan had trusted longer than he had trusted almost anyone alive.
Clara watched his face.
“Is something wrong?”
Nathan ended the call.
“Possibly.”
He looked at Owen’s old photograph over the fireplace.
His brother had been twenty-seven in the picture.
Laughing.
One arm wrapped around Atlas when the mastiff was still young enough to jump.
Nathan had spent ten years believing Owen had died because a rival crew burned Warehouse Nine during a territorial dispute.
Patrick had been the first person to identify the rival responsible.
Nathan had spent three years destroying that rival organization.
And now Patrick had been in Nathan's wine cellar minutes before somebody put a sedative in his whiskey.
Nathan suddenly wondered something he had never allowed himself to wonder.
What if the story of Owen’s death had been given to him by the same people who benefited from Nathan believing it?
He looked at Clara.
“You and Ellie are not leaving the house tonight.”
Her eyes widened.
“Mr. Mercer—”
“Not negotiable.”
“My apartment is twenty minutes away.”
“And someone attempted to drug me while the woman who threatened you is downstairs.”
“I don’t think Vivian would hurt Ellie.”
“Neither did I think she would forge my signature.”
That silenced her.
Nathan moved toward the door.
“Cal will put you in the east guest suite.”
“What are you going to do?”
He stopped.
Downstairs, Vivian’s laugh floated above the music.
Nathan thought about the whiskey.
Owen’s missing box.
Patrick.
The forged signature.
Then about a six-year-old in broken fairy wings who had somehow noticed the one thing everyone else missed.
“I’m going back to my engagement party.”
Clara stared.
“You're going downstairs?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because whoever poisoned my drink expects me to drink it.”
Nathan buttoned his jacket.
“And I’d hate to disappoint them.”
He descended the staircase thirteen minutes later carrying an empty whiskey glass.
Vivian saw him immediately.
She smiled.
Perfectly.
Beautifully.
Then her eyes moved toward the empty glass.
For the smallest fraction of a second, relief appeared on her face.
Nathan saw it.
Across the ballroom, Patrick Mercer saw it too.
And smiled.
Nathan finally understood.
May you like
Ellie Walsh’s first wish had not merely saved him from a drugged drink.
It had just shown him exactly who wanted him helpless.
