Chapter 2 - THE WOMAN IN THE BLUE DRESS
The scream came from the west wing.
Lina reached the hallway before Armand.
The mansion, normally quiet at this hour, suddenly seemed alive with movement. Footsteps echoed across the marble floors. A door slammed upstairs. Somewhere beyond the grand staircase, a glass object shattered.
“Stay behind me,” Armand ordered.
But Lina was already moving.
The sound had come from the same part of the mansion where she had discovered Isabelle's portrait.
And something told her that was no coincidence.
They turned into the long corridor leading toward the old gallery.
At the far end, Margaret stood beside an open doorway.
One hand covered her mouth.
Her other hand gripped the wall.
“Margaret!” Armand shouted.
She turned.
“It's Mrs. Whitcomb.”
Lina's stomach tightened.
Mrs. Whitcomb was the estate's oldest employee.
Seventy-one years old, sharp-minded, and fiercely loyal to the Veller family, she had worked in the mansion since before Isabelle was born.
She rarely spoke about the past.
And whenever anyone mentioned Catherine Veller, she found an excuse to leave the room.
“What happened?” Armand demanded.
Margaret pointed inside.
“I heard a noise. I came to investigate, and I found her.”
Mrs. Whitcomb lay on the floor beside an overturned table.
Her gray hair had fallen loose from its bun.
A small cut marked her forehead.
And her right hand clutched a torn piece of blue fabric.
Lina dropped to her knees.
“Mrs. Whitcomb?”
The older woman's eyes fluttered.
“Don't move her,” Armand said. “I'll call an ambulance.”
Mrs. Whitcomb suddenly seized Lina's wrist.
Her grip was astonishingly strong.
“Lina.”
“I'm here.”
The older woman struggled to speak.
“She came back.”
Lina leaned closer.
“Who came back?”
Mrs. Whitcomb's eyes filled with terror.
“The woman in blue.”
Lina felt a chill.
“What woman?”
The old housekeeper pulled her closer.
“Catherine.”
Lina froze.
Behind her, Margaret made a small sound.
“That's impossible,” Armand whispered.
Mrs. Whitcomb shook her head desperately.
“Not Catherine. Not really. The other one.”
Her breathing became ragged.
“The girl knows.”
“What girl?” Lina asked.
Mrs. Whitcomb's fingers tightened.
“Isabelle.”
Then she whispered something that made Lina's blood run cold.
“HER MOTHER DIDN'T DIE IN THAT CAR.”
By the time the ambulance arrived, Mrs. Whitcomb had lost consciousness.
The paramedics carried her out through the service entrance while Armand spoke urgently with the emergency dispatcher.
Margaret remained unusually quiet.
Lina noticed that the older woman's eyes kept drifting toward the torn blue fabric now lying inside a clear evidence bag.
Police officers arrived shortly afterward.
The lead investigator, Detective Daniel Mercer, was a broad-shouldered man in his early forties with a tired face and the patient manner of someone who had spent years listening to people conceal the truth.
He examined the room carefully.
“Was anything stolen?”
Armand shook his head.
“Not that I know of.”
“Any security alarms triggered?”
“No.”
Mercer looked toward the corridor.
“Who has access to this wing?”
“Family members and staff.”
“How many staff?”
“Eight full-time employees.”
“And visitors?”
“Occasionally.”
Mercer studied the damaged table.
“This doesn't look like an accidental fall.”
Lina watched Margaret's face.
Nothing.
No visible reaction.
The detective turned toward her.
“You found the victim?”
“No,” Lina answered. “Mrs. Veller did.”
Margaret nodded calmly.
“I heard her scream.”
“Did you see anyone leaving?”
“No.”
“Any unusual sounds before the scream?”
Margaret paused.
“I thought I heard footsteps.”
“Male or female?”
“I couldn't tell.”
Mercer made a note.
Then he looked at Armand.
“Mr. Veller, has anything unusual happened here recently?”
Armand glanced toward Lina.
She felt her pulse quicken.
If he mentioned Isabelle, the police would begin asking questions.
Questions that might expose Evelyn's location.
Armand seemed to understand.
“Nothing I can confirm,” he answered.
Mercer studied him.
“That's an interesting choice of words.”
Armand said nothing.
The detective closed his notebook.
“I'd strongly advise everyone to remain available.”
Then he turned to Lina.
“And I'd like to speak with you privately before I leave.”
Twenty minutes later, Lina sat in the small library.
Detective Mercer closed the door.
“Miss Morales, how long have you worked here?”
“Almost six years.”
“Do you trust the Veller family?”
The question surprised her.
“Mr. Veller has always treated me fairly.”
“That wasn't my question.”
Lina hesitated.
“I don't know everyone in this house as well as I thought.”
Mercer sat opposite her.
“Mrs. Whitcomb was attacked.”
“You're sure?”
“Someone struck her with a heavy object. We found blood on the corner of a bronze statue.”
Lina looked away.
“Do you know why?”
“Not yet.”
He leaned forward.
“But I think you might.”
Lina's heart hammered.
“Why would you think that?”
“Because Mrs. Whitcomb said your name repeatedly while the paramedics were treating her.”
Lina swallowed.
“What did she say?”
Mercer opened his notebook.
“She kept saying, 'Tell Lina the photograph is wrong.'”
Lina frowned.
“What photograph?”
“I was hoping you'd know.”
She shook her head.
Mercer watched her carefully.
“Miss Morales, if you're protecting someone, I need you to understand something.”
Lina remained silent.
“Secrets don't protect innocent people forever.”
He stood.
“They usually protect the person who created them.”
After he left, Lina sat motionless.
The photograph is wrong.
Which photograph?
The portrait?
The photograph of Catherine?
Or something else entirely?
Across town, Evelyn Hart was finishing her afternoon shift.
The café had grown quiet.
Rain tapped against the windows.
Her manager, Rosa Delgado, was counting receipts behind the counter.
Rosa was fifty-six, with warm brown eyes and a voice that could comfort even the most frightened child.
She had given Evelyn a job five years earlier, when the young woman arrived carrying a battered suitcase and asking for work.
Rosa had never demanded explanations.
She understood that some people needed safety before they could tell their stories.
“You've been distracted all day,” Rosa said.
Evelyn wiped down the counter.
“Just tired.”
“Try again.”
Evelyn gave a weak smile.
Rosa placed the receipts aside.
“Does this have something to do with the woman who showed you that picture?”
Evelyn went still.
“You saw?”
“I saw you turn white.”
Evelyn looked toward the door.
“Rosa, if anyone asks about me, please don't tell them anything.”
Rosa's expression hardened.
“Who's looking for you?”
Evelyn shook her head.
“I don't know yet.”
“Then you should call the police.”
“No.”
The force of the answer startled them both.
Evelyn lowered her voice.
“Please. Not yet.”
Rosa approached her.
“Sweetheart, whatever happened to you, you don't have to face it alone.”
For a moment, Evelyn's composure cracked.
Tears filled her eyes.
“I thought it was over.”
“What was?”
Evelyn looked down.
“The night I lost everything.”
Fifteen years earlier, Isabelle Veller had awakened to the sound of an argument.
She was nine years old.
Her bedroom was on the second floor of the mansion, overlooking the rose garden.
Normally, she slept through the night.
But that evening, voices drifted through the corridor.
A man's voice.
A woman's voice.
And the sound of something breaking.
Isabelle climbed out of bed.
She opened her door.
At the far end of the hallway, light spilled from her father's study.
She heard a woman say:
“You promised no one would get hurt.”
Then a man answered:
“It's too late to change your mind.”
Isabelle crept closer.
The study door was slightly open.
Inside, a woman stood near the fireplace.
She wore a blue dress.
Her dark hair fell across her shoulders.
And when she turned toward the door, Isabelle nearly cried out.
Because the woman looked exactly like her mother.
Her mother, who had supposedly died six months earlier.
The woman saw Isabelle.
For a second, neither moved.
Then the woman's eyes widened.
“Isabelle?”
The little girl stumbled backward.
“Mommy?”
The woman rushed toward her.
But before she reached the doorway, someone seized her from behind.
Isabelle heard a struggle.
A sharp cry.
Then the man's voice.
“Get the child.”
Isabelle ran.
She raced through the hallway, down the servants' staircase, and into the dark kitchen.
Someone followed.
She could hear footsteps.
Heavy.
Fast.
Getting closer.
Then a hand grabbed her from behind.
Isabelle tried to scream.
Another hand covered her mouth.
“Quiet,” a woman whispered.
“Please, sweetheart. I'm trying to save you.”
The woman pulled her through a narrow doorway behind the pantry.
And the world Isabelle knew disappeared forever.
Back in the café, Evelyn stared at the rain.
Rosa touched her shoulder.
“Evelyn?”
She blinked.
“I'm sorry.”
“You were somewhere else.”
Evelyn nodded.
“A long time ago.”
Rosa hesitated.
“Who was the woman in the picture?”
Evelyn's lips trembled.
“Me.”
Rosa stared.
“What?”
“When I was nine.”
Before Rosa could respond, the café door opened.
A man entered wearing a dark raincoat.
He looked around the nearly empty room.
Then smiled.
“Good afternoon.”
Rosa approached him.
“Can I help you?”
The man ignored her.
His eyes settled on Evelyn.
“Hello, Isabelle.”
Evelyn's blood turned cold.
She knew that voice.
She had heard it fifteen years earlier, on the worst night of her life.
The man removed his hat.
And smiled again.
May you like
“YOUR MOTHER SENDS HER LOVE.”
END OF CHAPTER 2
