Chapter 4 - A Dinner Served in Silence
The grandfather clock struck eight in the evening. In the cavernous formal dining room, a single place setting was laid out at the head of a mahogany table that could seat thirty guests. Damian sat alone, a glass of unopened vintage port catching the flickering light of three beeswax candles.
The heavy mahogany doors swung open. Elise walked in, carrying a covered silver tureen of roasted squash soup. Her posture was stiff, her hands clutching the silver handles so tightly her knuckles were chalk-white. Damian watched her every movement, his dark eyes tracking the subtle tremor in her wrists as she set the bowl down before him.
"You're nervous tonight, Elise," Damian said, his voice quiet, devoid of the harshness he usually maintained with the household staff.
Elise jumped slightly, taking a step back and clasping her hands over her white apron. "Forgive me, Mr. Ashford. The cold outside gets into the joints, I think."
"It was thirteen degrees last night," Damian noted, picking up his silver spoon and stirring the soup without tasting it. "Bitterly cold down near the river. Down by the old railway bridge, where the freight lines cross."
Elise’s breath hitched. Her eyes widened, darting toward the double doors to see if Mrs. Crane was hovering in the hallway. Seeing no one, she looked back at Damian, terror flashing across her face. "Sir?"
Damian laid his spoon down with a soft, deliberate clatter against the porcelain. He leaned back in his leather chair, fixing her with an intense, unblinking gaze. "How long has he been sleeping under the pier, Elise?"
The dining room seemed to freeze. The only sound was the crackle of the hearth behind them. Elise felt her knees buckle slightly, but she caught herself against the edge of the sideboard. She knew she was fired. She knew the police were probably waiting outside in the driveway. But as she looked at Damian Ashford—at the hollow shadows beneath his eyes, the subtle clenching of his jaw—she saw something that wasn't anger. She saw agony.
"Since August," Elise whispered, her voice trembling but steadying as she spoke. "Before that, he was behind the old fish markets on 4th. The city demolished the shacks, and he moved south toward the bridge. He had nowhere else to go."
Damian closed his eyes, inhaling a ragged breath through his nose. When he opened them, they were wet, shining under the candlelight. "Why didn't you tell me? Why give him my coats in secret?"
"Because he begged me not to!" Elise took an impulsive step forward, forgetting her place, forgetting her fear. "He said if anyone in this house knew he was breathing, he wouldn't survive the week! He said the woman with the lemon polish would make sure the river finished what the docks started!"
Damian stood up so abruptly that his heavy mahogany chair screeched against the parquet floor. "Odette."
"Yes!" Elise reached into the pocket of her apron, pulling out the battered, stained envelope she had kept hidden all day. "He gave me this last night. He gives me one every month, hoping I’ll find a way to get it to you when she isn't watching. Look at it, Mr. Ashford. Please."
Damian took the envelope. His fingers shook violently as he smoothed out the crumpled cream paper. It was his father's hand. That unmistakable, sharp cursive, tilting slightly to the left, written with the firm pressure that used to leave impressions on the three pages beneath it.
Damian tore the flap open. A small, brass skeleton key slid out into his palm, accompanied by a single folded leaf of parchment.
*My beloved boy,* the letter read.
*If you are reading this, Elise has found the courage I lacked. In 2011, I discovered the shortfall in our maritime accounts—twelve million dollars diverted through shell companies registered to Odette’s brother in Grand Cayman. When I confronted her, they didn't shoot me. They poisoned my tea with thallium, slowly, over three months, until my mind broke, my legs failed, and my memory scattered like dry leaves. When they staged my disappearance at the docks, I managed to crawl into a coal barge bound for Pennsylvania. It took me ten years to remember my own name. It took me twelve to walk back to this city. I could not come home, Damian. The papers said you had buried me, and Odette had legal conservatorship of the private trusts until you turned thirty. She would have finished the job. Go to the trophy room. The third plank from the hearth. Forgive an old man who was too weak to protect his son.*
A heavy thud echoed from the corridor outside.
Damian shoved the letter into his breast pocket and looked toward the grand foyer. Felix appeared in the doorway, his overcoat dusted with snow, his face pale and grim. Behind him, the front door stood wide open, letting in a swirl of icy wind.
"Sir," Felix said, his chest heaving. "She’s gone."
"What do you mean, gone?" Damian demanded, marching toward the door.
May you like
"Odette left in the second limousine twenty minutes ago. I checked her private quarters. Her personal safe is cleared out, the hard drives from the security room are gone, and her private car was tracked heading toward the river district."
Elise let out a sharp cry. "The river! Hank was moving Victor to the warehouse across the street tonight because of the freeze! She knows where he is!"
