Chapter 5 - THE COOK WHO BECAME A TARGET
The police found no useful fingerprints.
Mason doubled security.
Dorcas objected to one thing.
“You're sending me away?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“This isn't employment anymore. Someone threatened my family.”
“Exactly.”
“So I'm staying.”
Mason stared at her.
“Why?”
The answer frightened her.
Because she cared.
Too much.
Instead she said, “Because whoever did this expects you to isolate yourself.”
“I won't risk your life.”
“That's my decision.”
“No.”
Dorcas stepped closer.
“There it is again.”
“What?”
“You deciding fear gives you the right to control everyone.”
The words hit.
Mason turned away.
“I cannot lose another person.”
Dorcas's anger disappeared.
There it was.
The real answer.
Not authority.
Love distorted by terror.
She softened.
“Then stop treating loving people like locking them in a safe.”
Mason looked back.
“I don't know another way.”
“Learn.”
The next attack came for Dorcas anyway.
Someone planted jewelry from Eleanor's safe inside her cottage.
Police arrived after an anonymous tip.
Mason watched an officer pull Eleanor's diamond bracelet from Dorcas's bag.
“You've got to be kidding me,” Dorcas said.
The detective looked at Mason.
“Do you want to press charges?”
“No.”
“Mr. Blackwell—”
“She didn't steal it.”
“How can you know?”
Mason answered without hesitation.
“Because I trust her.”
Dorcas forgot to breathe.
The detective left after taking statements.
When they were alone, she said, “That was a pretty big thing to give me.”
“What?”
“Trust.”
Mason stepped closer.
“You haven't broken it.”
The kiss happened quietly.
No orchestra.
No dramatic declaration.
Dorcas touched his face.
Mason hesitated for half a second as though even tenderness required permission.
Then he kissed her.
When they separated, he whispered, “This is a terrible idea.”
“Probably.”
“You work for me.”
“Technically.”
“I should fire you.”
“You'd starve.”
He smiled against her forehead.
For one minute, the conspiracy disappeared.
Then Dorcas noticed something under her cottage door.
An envelope.
Inside was a photograph.
Arthur Blackwell beside Victor Hale.
Dr. Fallon stood behind them.
And beside Fallon was a fourth man.
Henry Collins.
Twenty years younger.
Dorcas stared.
“Mason.”
He looked.
His face changed.
Henry had worked for the Blackwells for thirty-two years.
He had access to everything.
Security.
Medication.
Clothing.
The kitchen.
“Don't confront him,” Dorcas said.
Mason was already moving.
They found Henry packing a suitcase.
He froze.
Mason held up the photograph.
“Explain.”
Henry closed his eyes.
“I wondered when this would come.”
“Were you part of it?”
“No.”
“Then why are you leaving?”
“Because they're going to kill me.”
Silence.
Henry sat.
Twenty years of secrets came out in ten minutes.
Arthur had discovered Victor stealing millions from Meridian.
Fallon helped Victor drug Arthur, creating memory gaps and making him appear unstable.
Henry discovered it.
Arthur begged him to collect evidence.
The night Arthur died, Henry was supposed to meet him.
He never arrived.
“Why?”
Henry cried.
It was the first time Mason had ever seen him cry.
“They threatened my wife.”
Mason went still.
“Margaret?”
Henry nodded.
“She was pregnant.”
Mason stared.
“You chose her.”
“Yes.”
“And my father died.”
“Yes.”
Henry lowered his head.
“I have lived with that every day.”
Mason's anger was enormous.
Dorcas expected an explosion.
Instead he asked:
“Did my father crash accidentally?”
Henry looked up.
“No.”
The room stopped.
“Victor had the brakes tampered with.”
Mason's face emptied.
“How do you know?”
“Arthur called me from the car. He said the brakes weren't responding.”
Henry reached into his suitcase.
He produced an old microcassette.
“I recorded the voicemail.”
Mason listened.
His father's frightened voice filled the room.
“Henry, it's Arthur. Something's wrong with the brakes. Tell Eleanor I—”
Metal screamed.
The recording ended.
Mason sat down.
For twenty years, he had believed his final words drove his father to his death.
They hadn't.
His father had been murdered.
Dorcas knelt beside him.
Mason covered his face.
And cried.
Not elegantly.
Not quietly.
Twenty years came apart.
Dorcas held him.
Henry stood nearby, weeping too.
Eventually Mason looked at Henry.
“You should have told me.”
“I know.”
“I hated myself.”
“I know.”
“You watched me.”
“I was a coward.”
Mason stood.
Henry expected punishment.
Instead Mason said, “You're going to testify.”
Henry stared.
“Yes.”
“And afterward?”
Mason looked at him.
“I haven't decided whether I can forgive you.”
Henry nodded.
“Fair.”
“But I understand why you protected your family.”
That was more mercy than Mason would have offered a week earlier.
Dorcas knew it.
So did Henry.
They now had testimony.
The tapes.
Financial records.
The voicemail.
Enough to destroy Victor.
Maybe enough to imprison him.
They arranged a meeting with federal investigators for the following morning.
Henry never made it.
At 6:10 a.m., his car was found abandoned near the estate gates.
The driver's door was open.
Blood stained the seat.
Henry Collins was gone.
And on the dashboard lay a message.
May you like
TRADE THE TAPES FOR THE BUTLER.
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