Chapter 2
The silence in the hallway stretched so tight it felt ready to snap. Daniel didn’t look angry; he looked like a man who had just seen a ghost. His eyes stayed locked on the small brass key resting in my palm, his breathing shallow and uneven.
"Where did you get that?" His voice was barely a whisper, but it carried the weight of a physical blow.
I instinctively stepped slightly in front of Ben, shielding him from his father’s gaze. "I found it on the floor, Mr. Mercer," I lied, keeping my voice steady despite the rapid pounding of my heart. "Ben was just helping me look for it."
Daniel’s gaze flicked to his son. Ben shrank back, his small hand gripping the hem of my shirt so hard his knuckles turned white.
"Go to bed, Ben," Daniel said. His voice wasn't loud, but the absolute lack of warmth in it made my stomach twist.
"But Daddy—"
"Bed. Now."
Ben didn’t argue. He let go of my shirt and scurried down the dark hallway, his bedroom door clicking shut a moment later.
Once we were alone, Daniel stepped out of the bedroom, closing the door behind him. He held the black leather folder tightly against his chest, as if it were a shield. He held out his other hand, palm up.
"Give it to me."
I placed the key in his hand. His skin was ice-cold. For a second, our fingers brushed, and I felt a faint tremor run through him.
"I hired you to watch the boys and keep the house," he said, his voice dropping to a low, warning rumble. "Not to pry. If I catch you near this room again, I don't care how good you are with the babies. You'll be on the next bus back to El Paso."
"I understand," I said quietly.
He didn’t say another word. He turned, unlocked the door to Claire’s room with the brass key, stepped inside, and locked it behind him.
I stood in the dark hallway for a long time, the smell of dust and old wood settling around me. I had twenty-seven dollars to my name and a family depending on me. I couldn’t afford to get involved in the secrets of a grieving family.
But as I finally walked back to my small bedroom, I couldn’t forget the look of absolute terror in Daniel Mercer’s eyes. It wasn't the look of a man hiding a crime. It was the look of a man trying to survive a nightmare.
Chapter 3
The next morning, the West Texas sun rose hot and unforgiving, baking the dry dirt outside my window. I got up before dawn, determined to keep my head down and do the job I was hired for.
By seven, the kitchen smelled of fresh coffee and warm biscuits. The twins were awake, sitting in their high chairs and happily smearing jam on their faces. Even Ben seemed a little brighter, though he kept his distance, watching me from the kitchen table with wide, cautious eyes.
Daniel entered the kitchen just as I was pouring the coffee. He looked like he hadn't slept at all. Dark circles bruised the skin under his eyes, and his jaw was set in a tight, defensive line.
"Morning," I said, placing a plate of food in front of him.
He mumbled something incoherent, took a cup of coffee, and immediately headed out the back door toward the barns. He didn’t look at me once.
"He doesn't eat breakfast anymore," Miss Evelyn said, limping into the kitchen a few minutes later. She sighed, looking at the untouched plate. "Ever since Claire passed, he just works until he drops."
"Miss Evelyn," I said, keeping my voice low so Ben wouldn't hear. "What really happened to Claire?"
The old cook paused, her hands hovering over the sink. She looked around the kitchen before leaning in close. "They say the horse threw her near the ravine. But Claire was a champion rider, Rosa. Raised on a ranch herself. She knew those trails better than anyone. And the sheriff... well, he closed the case mighty fast."
Before I could ask more, the sound of a heavy engine rumbled down the long dirt driveway.
I walked to the window and pulled back the curtain. A sleek, late-model black SUV was pulling up to the main house, kicking up a thick cloud of dust. It was completely out of place among the battered pickup trucks and rusty tractors of the Mercer ranch.
A man in a sharp grey suit got out, adjusting his sunglasses as he surveyed the property with an air of quiet ownership.
"Oh, no," Miss Evelyn muttered behind me, her voice trembling. "Not him again."
"Who is he?" I asked.
May you like
"Thomas Vance," she whispered. "The man who wants this land. And the man Claire was arguing with the night before she died."
The front doorbell rang, the sound echoing through the quiet house like a warning.
