Chapter 1 - The Price of a Secret
“Can I work?”
Emma’s question stopped Rachel in the doorway.
Vincent looked at the little girl clutching her dented cookie tin. Behind her, Rachel stood rigid, waiting for the kind of humiliation wealthy people delivered politely.
He knew the expression. His mother had worn it whenever the landlord knocked.
“What would you consider fair compensation for sorting the spoons?” he asked.
Rachel shook her head. “Mr. Hale, please don’t feel obligated.”
“I don’t.”
Emma considered the matter seriously.
“Twenty dollars.”
“For spoons?” Grant murmured.
“They get mixed.”
Vincent set down his cup.
“A persuasive argument.”
Rachel’s mouth tightened. “She can help Mrs. Dempsey because helping is kind. She cannot charge you twenty dollars for it.”
For the first time that morning, Vincent looked directly at her instead of around her.
There was exhaustion beneath her embarrassment. Her uniform was immaculate, but one cuff had been carefully repaired with thread a shade too pale.
“Then perhaps,” he said, “we should discuss an age-appropriate Christmas activity with a small allowance. With your permission.”
Rachel blinked.
The distinction mattered. He could see her deciding whether he understood that.
“Five dollars,” she said finally. “And only with supervision.”
Emma’s shoulders dropped.
“But I need twenty.”
“You can save,” Rachel replied gently.
The child looked down at her tin.
Vincent noticed the way she pressed the lid against her coat, protecting it.
After they left, the room remained quiet.
Then one of the men near the fireplace cleared his throat.
“About the warehouse transfer—”
“The meeting is over.”
The man glanced at the unopened folder in front of him.
Vincent did not repeat himself.
Within a minute, only Grant remained.
“You’re going to ask me to investigate a preschooler,” Grant said.
“No.”
“A refreshing development.”
“I’m going to ask whether our laundry equipment is injuring employees.”
Grant’s smile disappeared.
“The bandages?”
Vincent nodded.
“And find out whether anyone has reported a problem.”
By noon, Grant had an answer.
Three employees had complained about the old commercial press in the basement laundry. The maintenance request had been marked completed.
It had not been repaired.
The household’s operations director, Martin Bell, had signed the paperwork.
Vincent stared at the report.
“How long?”
“First complaint was six weeks ago.”
“And Mrs. Carter?”
“Burned her palm Tuesday. Cut her finger catching a cracked supply bin yesterday.”
Vincent stood.
The basement laundry smelled of hot cotton and detergent. Rachel was folding pillowcases beside a machine that hissed with every cycle.
She straightened when he entered.
“Is something wrong upstairs?”
“Yes,” he said. “Apparently, it started downstairs.”
Her eyes flickered toward the press.
“Please don’t blame Mrs. Dempsey. She reported it.”
“I know.”
“And Nora. She did too.”
“I know that as well.”
He walked to the machine, read the faded service sticker, and turned toward Grant.
“Shut it down. Arrange an outside service company. Everyone assigned to this room keeps their hours and pay.”
Rachel stared at him.
“You don’t need to make a production of it.”
“A functioning machine is a fairly modest production.”
For a moment, she almost smiled.
Then Emma appeared in the doorway beside Mrs. Dempsey, carrying a plastic basket filled with spoons.
“I finished.”
Mrs. Dempsey, the housekeeper, raised an eyebrow.
“She supervised while I finished.”
“Important work,” Vincent said.
Emma nodded.
Rachel crouched to straighten her daughter’s crooked coat. As she did, her injured palm caught on a button.
She inhaled sharply.
Emma’s face changed.
The fierce little negotiator vanished. In her place stood a frightened child watching someone she loved hurt.
“I’m getting it,” Emma whispered.
Rachel brushed a curl from her forehead.
“Getting what, honey?”
“Nothing.”
That evening, Vincent found five dollars in petty cash and asked Rachel whether he could give Emma the allowance they had agreed upon.
Rachel nodded.
Emma accepted the bill with both hands.
“Thank you,” she said, remembering her manners.
Then she tugged his sleeve.
He bent slightly.
“Can you take me to a store?”
“What store?”
“The one with the red sign.”
“What are we buying?”
She looked toward her mother, who was speaking with Mrs. Dempsey.
Then Emma leaned close enough for him to smell strawberry shampoo.
“Mommy needs hands that don’t hurt.”
Vincent stayed very still.
Emma opened her tin and showed him a folded advertisement hidden beneath the coins.
A pair of insulated winter work gloves filled the page.
May you like
Across the bottom, in bright red print, was a price.
Nineteen ninety-nine.
