Chapter 4 - THE WOMAN WITH THE SCAR
Celia Hart was found alive at four that afternoon, hiding in the stockroom of a hardware store.
A store employee had heard her crying behind a wall of paint cans and called the police. She had bruises on one wrist, a scraped knee, and no idea who had pursued her from the parking garage. The person had worn a hood and moved too fast for her to see a face.
Miriam received the news while we were stopped at a highway rest area. The relief left me dizzy. I had spent the past hour hearing that stranger's voice in my mind and imagining everything that might have followed.
“Celia's with a detective now,” Miriam told us. “She'll be offered protection while they investigate the assault and the forged seal.”
Gabriel leaned back. “Good. Tell her she doesn't have to speak to us unless she wants to.”
I watched a family unload children and bags of snacks from a minivan outside. The little girl insisted on carrying a stuffed elephant almost as big as she was. I envied them their ordinary argument about who had the crackers.
The police had already taken my statement about Bianca's assault. I had photographs of my injuries and the doctor's report. Still, I was afraid of how easy it would be for a wealthy woman's lawyer to call me mistaken, vindictive, or desperate for money.
Desperate was the worst word, because it was true in one way that had nothing to do with lying. I needed the job. I needed my father to keep receiving treatment. I needed our apartment to stay warm through winter. I just hadn't expected someone to use those needs as evidence against my honesty.
At the estate, Marco had placed guards at the service gates and installed temporary cameras outside the records rooms. Bianca was gone. Her lawyer had arranged for her to stay at a hotel after police questioned her, and Gabriel had changed the locks with a court-approved protocol for retrieving her belongings.
Mrs. Pritchard met us in the kitchen. She was holding a payroll folder so tightly that the corners had curled.
“There's something you need to see,” she told me.
She led us to the staff office and opened a file drawer. Behind the usual employment papers was a second stack of copies with no official heading. Every page recorded an employee's address, emergency contact, household medical information, and estimated debt.
“My file's here,” I whispered.
Mrs. Pritchard nodded miserably. “Bianca asked me to provide updated contact details for a wedding staff list. I assumed she needed guest transportation and dietary notes. This isn't what I gave her.”
Miriam skimmed the pages. “Some of this appears to have been pulled from financial background reports. Who had access?”
“Marcus. Payroll. Maybe Bianca through his office.”
Gabriel stared at the files. “Why wasn't I told?”
Mrs. Pritchard straightened. “Because people who work for you are sometimes frightened of bringing you bad news.”
He started to reply, then stopped. The quiet that followed said more than an argument could.
“I need to change that,” he said finally.
He turned to Miriam. “Arrange a privacy review. We notify every affected employee. Independent contact point, no retaliation, even if it embarrasses me.”
“Especially if it embarrasses you,” she said.
I found my original hiring form. My signature had a peculiar loop on the H in Hayes. The forged witness signature used the same loop, but too carefully, as if someone had drawn it from a picture.
“Whoever did this had my paperwork,” I said.
Miriam photographed both signatures. “That may be important.”
Marco entered carrying his phone. “We have a possible identification on the woman Celia described. Security cameras at a salon near the courthouse show a woman with a neck scar picking up a dark wig on Tuesday.”
He showed us a still image. She wore a green coat and sunglasses, and a thin white line crossed the left side of her neck.
I squinted through my sore eye. “I know her.”
Everyone turned.
“She came to the mansion about a month ago. Bianca introduced her as a florist, but she never looked at the flowers. She spent twenty minutes asking where we stored extra uniforms.”
“Did you get a name?” Marco asked.
“Daria. Daria Mills, I think.”
Marco looked at Miriam. “Daria Mills has an old connection to the events company that supplied the engagement dinner. Investigators can follow that.”
The false witness had stood close enough to me to compliment my apron. The thought made my skin prickle.
That evening, I asked Marco to drive me home. Gabriel offered a room at the estate, but I wanted to see Dad and Sophie with my own eyes. He didn't argue. A police patrol agreed to pass by the building while the threatening visitor remained unidentified.
Our apartment smelled like chicken broth and the lavender lotion Dad used on his hands. He stood slowly from his chair when I came in, one hand on the walker he'd needed since his last hospital stay.
“Liv,” he said, looking at my eye. “Who did this?”
The concern in his voice undid me. I crossed the room and hugged him gently, careful of my arm.
“A woman at work. I reported it. I'm safe right now.”
He leaned back, searching my face. “You should've called.”
“I didn't want to worry you.”
He shook his head. “Daughters never stop being daughters because their fathers get sick.”
Sophie appeared in the doorway, wearing a sweatshirt and the expression of someone trying very hard not to cry. At nineteen, she could argue about anything, including the correct way to stack mugs, but she had no defenses against seeing me hurt.
“I'm taking pictures of every bruise,” she announced. “And I'm keeping copies.”
“Already done,” I said.
“Then I'm taking more.”
We ate at the kitchen table while I explained what I could. Dad listened silently until I mentioned the vineyard's spring.
“Vescari Vineyard?” he asked.
“Yes. Why?”
He rubbed his forehead. “Years ago, when I still worked on municipal water systems, a subcontractor asked our department about connecting a private development to an old underground line west of the city. My supervisor wouldn't authorize it.”
My fork stopped halfway to my mouth.
“What development?”
“I don't remember the name. They wanted to move water between parcels without going through the usual reviews. My supervisor said there were protected agricultural users downstream.”
“Could it be the same place?” Sophie asked.
“Maybe. Maybe not.” Dad looked at me. “Don't make a theory out of an old man's memory. Ask the people with the records.”
I smiled weakly. He had always been the sort of man who checked the battery before replacing an appliance. He didn't believe in guesses that could be tested.
After dinner, my phone rang. Gabriel.
“Your father okay?” he asked.
“He's giving everyone orders from his recliner. That's a good sign.”
A faint breath of amusement. “Miriam spoke with Celia. She recognized Daria Mills from a photograph, but she's not certain. The police are investigating.”
“Thank you for telling me.”
“There's more. We found the original access ledger from the vineyard in a storage unit registered to Marcus. Some pages are missing.”
“Can you get them back?”
“We're following the legal process to preserve the records.” He paused. “Olivia, if someone comes to your door tonight, don't confront them.”
“I wasn't planning to.”
“I know. I just—” He stopped.
“You don't know how to fix everything,” I said.
“No.” His answer was quiet. “I'm starting to understand that.”
After we hung up, I stood by the kitchen window, watching headlights move along the wet street. Sophie was filling the dishwasher. Dad was laughing at a game show as if our world hadn't split apart.
Then a folded slip of paper fell from my coat pocket.
It wasn't mine. Someone must have slipped it there at the rest area or in the staff office. I unfolded it carefully by the sink.
The note contained an address, a time, and a warning written in neat capital letters:
DARIA KNOWS WHO HIRED HER. ASK BEFORE THEY MOVE HER.
Underneath was a photograph printed from a security camera. It showed Daria Mills entering a car beside a tall man in a camel-colored overcoat.
The man was Marcus DeLuca.
I called Miriam, not Gabriel. It felt important that the evidence go directly to someone who would preserve it properly.
She answered on the second ring. I described the note and sent photographs without touching the paper further.
“Put it in a clean envelope,” she said. “Don't meet anyone at that address. Police can trace who delivered it.”
“I wasn't going to meet them.”
“Good. It's possible the note is genuine. It's also possible somebody wants to lure you somewhere.”
I looked again at the picture. Marcus had his hand on Daria's shoulder, smiling down at her with the easy warmth he'd always shown the staff.
“Why would he need someone wearing my uniform?” I asked.
“Because if the fake witness is ever challenged,” Miriam said, “he can point to a video and insist you were there.”
A cold realization settled over me.
“Unless the video shows her face.”
“Exactly.”
I remembered the camera in the conference room and its convenient angle. The back of the witness had been visible; her face had not.
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Marcus wasn't only stealing property. He was building an alternate version of the night, frame by frame, that could survive if anyone asked questions.
And in that version, the injured maid was the liar.
