Chapter 6
Estelle scrambled to right herself, her breathing ragged and heavy. The diamond earrings that had looked so glamorous an hour ago now seemed like heavy shackles pulling her down. She rubbed her wrist where Cleo had grabbed her, glaring at the beautiful housemaid with unadulterated hatred.
“She assaulted me!” Estelle shrieked, pointing a shaking finger at Cleo. “Lawrence, your maid just put her hands on me! Are you going to let the help treat your future wife like a criminal?”
Lawrence adjusted his signet ring, the heavy gold catching the dim light of the study. He walked slowly around the front of his mahogany desk, his tailored dark suit moving seamlessly over his powerful shoulders.
“Did I ever explicitly state that you would actually become my wife, Estelle? Or did you merely assume the ring was a promise of safety?”
Estelle stared at the massive diamond on her left hand as if it had suddenly turned into a poisonous spider. The realization that her entire engagement had been a calculated cage designed by a mafia boss finally shattered her delusions of grandeur. She backed away slowly, her eyes wide with terror.
Cleo stepped forward, positioning herself firmly between Estelle and the sofa where Hugo sat trembling. “You should confess, Miss Voss. The evidence Mr. Crowe has gathered is overwhelming. Delaying this only makes it worse.”
Estelle let out a bitter, hysterical laugh. “Confess? To what? You have nothing! You have a pharmacist who will deny everything to save his own skin, and a seven-year-old boy who has been brainwashed by a maid! You have no proof! You have no murder weapon!”
Lawrence leaned back against his desk, crossing his arms over his chest. The small neck tattoo peeked out ominously.
“Why did you throw away your favorite pair of satin gloves on the night she died, Estelle? Did you believe the incinerator would destroy the traces of the digitalis powder you used to lace her tea?”
Estelle’s breath hitched violently. She took another step back, her spine hitting the cold, hard wood of the bookshelves. “I... I lost them. I lost those gloves at the theater the week before.”
“Are you certain you lost them at the theater? Why, then, did Cleo recover them from the bottom of your private fireplace before the ashes were cleared?”
Estelle’s head whipped toward Cleo. The housemaid stood perfectly still, her hands clasped in front of her. Cleo’s softly oval face showed no pity, only a quiet, resolute strength.
“You went through my room?” Estelle whispered, the sheer violation of her privacy momentarily overriding her fear of the murder charge. “You dug through my ashes like a rat?”
“Is it the maid’s job to clean the fireplaces, Estelle? Did you expect her to ignore evidence of a murder committed against the lady of this house?” Lawrence asked, his deep, quiet voice entirely devoid of emotion.
Estelle’s chest heaved. The walls of the study were closing in on her. The dark mahogany, the smell of leather and smoke—it felt like a tomb. She looked around frantically, realizing there was no way out. The heavy oak doors were guarded from the outside. She was trapped in a room with a mafia boss who knew exactly what she had done, a maid who had gathered the evidence, and a child who had witnessed the crime.
“It was an accident,” Estelle whispered, a desperate, pathetic attempt at a new defense. “I didn't mean to give her that much. I just wanted to make her sick. I just wanted her out of the way so we could be together, Lawrence.”
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Lawrence tilted his head, his cold, observant eyes turning completely pitch black.
“Do you truly expect me to believe you accidentally measured a lethal dose of a restricted cardiac medication? Do you think I will accept ‘accidental murder’ as an excuse for stealing the mother of my child?”
