Chapter 3
Thomas found the first proof in Veronica’s dressing room.
Not hidden well.
Because people rarely hide things they believe they are entitled to possess.
A small notebook sat beneath her jewelry case.
Inside were dates.
My travel schedule.
Sofia’s meals.
Sofia’s tantrums.
Sofia’s bedtime.
Whether she asked for me.
Whether she cried when corrected.
And, beside several entries, initials.
D.V.
Damian Vaughn.
I read one line twice.
Sofia refused kitchen duty. Veronica instructed to repeat until obedience becomes automatic.
I looked up.
Veronica was sitting under guard across from me.
“Kitchen duty?”
Her expression changed.
Sofia had never mentioned that.
“How long?”
No answer.
I placed the notebook down.
“Do not make me ask a third time.”
“Three weeks.”
I felt rage move through me carefully.
“What did you make her do?”
“Small things.”
I hated that phrase.
“Name one.”
“Fold napkins.”
Another.
“Carry laundry.”
Another.
“Wipe the breakfast table.”
“Anything else?”
Silence.
Then Thomas appeared in the doorway.
He held a tiny pair of rubber gloves.
Cleaning gloves.
Child-sized.
My chest tightened.
“Where?”
“Service pantry.”
I looked at Veronica.
She sighed.
“She liked helping at first.”
There.
Victim blamed through enthusiasm.
A child wants to imitate adults once, so adults turn it into obligation.
“When did helping become serving?”
“She needed structure.”
“No.”
I leaned forward.
“You needed compliance.”
Her eyes hardened.
“You have no idea what people say about you.”
Interesting.
“What?”
“That Evelyn weakened you.”
I stared.
“She’s dead.”
“Exactly.”
That word again.
Veronica continued.
“You still organize this house around what she believed. You let staff eat in family spaces. You let Sofia call house employees by first name. You removed the upstairs service bell.”
I almost laughed.
The service bell.
My father used to ring it when he wanted somebody to appear.
I removed it because I hated watching human beings summoned like objects.
Apparently Damian considered that political.
“Who else meets with him?”
Veronica looked at the notebook.
I followed her eyes.
There were more initials.
R.S.
M.V.
C.H.
Three people.
One I recognized immediately.
Miles Vaughn.
My cousin.
A senior capo.
The others I did not.
The old men were not simply complaining about how I raised Sofia.
They were tracking her.
That meant the child was evidence for something.
I closed the notebook.
“What are they trying to prove?”
Veronica said nothing.
Then Sofia’s voice came from the hallway.
May you like
“That I’m bad Vaughn.”
The room went silent.
