Chapter 1 - ELEANOR CARTER
At five in the morning on my third day inside Falcone Manor, I made breakfast because hunger had finally become louder than fear.
The kitchen was absurd.
Two commercial refrigerators.
Six-burner range.
Copper pans hanging like decorations.
Truffles.
Caviar.
Cheese that probably cost more than my winter coat.
Nobody had cooked anything.
I found potatoes.
Bacon.
Eggs.
Butter.
Flour.
Buttermilk.
Normal food.
My mother’s food.
I diced the potatoes small, exactly as she had taught me.
Butter first.
Then bacon fat.
Onions.
Cracked pepper only after the potatoes started browning because Mom insisted pepper burned if you got impatient.
Biscuits went into the oven.
For the first time since I walked through those iron gates forty-seven hours earlier, Falcone Manor smelled less like a fortress and more like somewhere people might actually live.
Then I heard footsteps.
Three sets.
I turned.
Roman, Declan and Gabriel Falcone stood in the doorway.
Identical faces.
Completely different reactions.
Declan stared at the biscuits.
Gabriel’s lazy smile disappeared.
Roman looked at the skillet.
Not at me.
At the potatoes.
He went completely still.
“Who taught you to make them like that?”
“My mother.”
Roman looked toward his brothers.
Declan whispered:
“No.”
Gabriel's face had lost every trace of amusement.
Roman asked:
“What was your mother’s name?”
I frowned.
“Why?”
“Maeve.”
First time he had used my first name.
“What was her name?”
Something about all three men made my stomach tighten.
“Eleanor.”
Nobody moved.
“Eleanor Carter.”
Declan’s coffee cup slipped from his hand.
It hit the stone floor and shattered.
I jumped.
Gabriel did not even look down.
Roman’s voice became dangerously quiet.
“Your mother was Eleanor Carter?”
“Yes.”
“When did she die?”
The question hit harder than it should have.
“Four years ago.”
Roman closed his eyes.
Declan turned away.
Gabriel whispered something I could not hear.
I put the wooden spoon down.
“What is happening?”
Roman looked at me.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-four.”
“Did you live in Massachusetts when you were a child?”
My pulse changed.
“Until I was nine.”
“Where?”
“I don't remember exactly.”
“You don't remember where you lived at nine?”
“We moved.”
“A lot?”
“After that, yes.”
Roman stepped into the kitchen.
I stepped back automatically.
He noticed.
Stopped.
Good.
“What did your mother tell you about her work before you left Massachusetts?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“She said she worked for rich families.”
Declan laughed once.
Not humor.
“Rich families.”
I folded my arms.
“Can somebody explain why all three of you look like I just dug up a body?”
Gabriel finally looked at me.
“In a way, you did.”
Roman shot him a warning glance.
Too late.
“What does that mean?”
Roman pulled out a chair.
“Sit down.”
“No.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“I don't sit when strange men tell me to after spending two days trying to scare me out of their house.”
Declan looked almost impressed.
Gabriel definitely was.
Roman glanced at the bloody-knuckle brother.
Then at the one who had investigated my debt.
Then apparently remembered the fifty-thousand-dollar cash test inside his own desk.
Fair.
“Then stand.”
“I was planning to.”
Roman took a breath.
“Fifteen years ago, a woman named Eleanor Carter worked in this house.”
The room felt colder.
“She was our mother’s personal cook.”
Gabriel corrected:
“She was more than that.”
Roman nodded.
“She practically raised us.”
I stared.
“My mother?”
“Yes.”
Declan leaned against the counter.
“She made those potatoes every Sunday.”
I looked at the skillet.
Suddenly the smell felt wrong.
Roman continued:
“She disappeared when we were thirteen.”
My voice became quieter.
“Why?”
Nobody answered.
“Roman.”
His jaw tightened.
“Our mother died.”
I waited.
“And?”
“Eleanor was blamed.”
“For what?”
Gabriel looked at me.
“For killing her.”
The kitchen disappeared around me.
“No.”
Roman did not move.
“No.”
“My mother never killed anyone.”
“I didn't say she did.”
“You just—”
“I said she was blamed.”
That distinction reached me a second late.
Declan pushed away from the counter.
“We were told she poisoned our mother, stole family money and ran.”
I stared at him.
“My mother had three jobs when I was sixteen.”
Nobody spoke.
“She wore the same winter coat for seven years.”
My voice began shaking.
“When she died, she left us six hundred dollars and a box of recipes.”
Gabriel looked toward Roman.
“Does that sound like millions?”
“No.”
I felt anger replacing shock.
“Who told you she did it?”
Roman answered:
“Our father.”
That silenced me.
Then footsteps came from the corridor.
Mrs. Hess entered.
She looked from the shattered cup to the breakfast.
Then saw my face.
“What happened?”
Gabriel answered:
“Her mother was Eleanor Carter.”
Mrs. Hess stopped walking.
The tray in her hand rattled.
Roman turned.
“You knew her.”
Mrs. Hess’s eyes filled with something I had not seen in three days.
Fear.
“Yes.”
Roman stepped closer.
“What aren't you telling us?”
The old house manager looked at me.
Then at the brothers.
“I prayed this morning would never come.”
Declan’s voice hardened.
“Why?”
Mrs. Hess sat down slowly.
“Because Eleanor left me something fifteen years ago.”
Silence.
“What?” Roman asked.
“A letter.”
Gabriel stared.
“You had a letter from Eleanor?”
“Yes.”
“For fifteen years?”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“Yes.”
Declan slammed his hand against the counter.
I flinched.
He saw it and immediately stepped back.
Good.
Roman’s voice was worse because it stayed calm.
“Where is it?”
Mrs. Hess looked at me.
“In my room.”
Then:
“She told me never to open it unless one of two things happened.”
“What things?”
“Salvatore died.”
The three brothers exchanged looks.
Their uncle.
I had heard the name.
Salvatore Falcone.
Chairman emeritus.
Family adviser.
The only man Mrs. Hess had warned me never to contradict.
Roman asked:
“And the second?”
Mrs. Hess looked directly at him.
“Unless you boys finally asked whether Eleanor Carter was really guilty.”
May you like
The breakfast burned behind me.
Nobody noticed.
