Chapter 10 - THE GHOST IN THE GARDEN
Summer arrived in Chicago, bringing warm breezes off the lake and blooming hydrangeas to the Moretti estate.
Life was perfect.
Maybe too perfect.
My mother was fully recovered and living comfortably in a condo Luca had purchased for her in a safe, quiet neighborhood.
Noah was flourishing, his new carbon-fiber cane moving faster than I could sometimes walk.
And I was engaged to Luca Moretti.
There was a ring on my finger now—a stunning, understated emerald-cut diamond that had belonged to Luca’s grandmother.
I wasn’t a maid anymore. I was the future Mrs. Moretti.
But old habits die hard.
It was a Tuesday morning, and the house staff was preparing for a small charity luncheon Luca was hosting.
I walked into the kitchen, instinctively reaching for a stack of dessert plates to help set the tables.
Mrs. Carter gently took the plates out of my hands.
"Hannah, dear, please," she smiled warmly. "You are the hostess today. Go sit down."
"I just want to help," I protested mildly.
"You help by being happy," she insisted, turning me toward the door.
I laughed and wandered out through the French doors toward the rose garden.
The caterers were setting up white tents on the lawn.
I walked down the stone path, enjoying the quiet morning air.
As I rounded the corner near the old stone fountain, I stopped.
Standing by the iron wrought gate at the edge of the property was a woman.
She wasn't dressed like caterer.
She wore a faded trench coat, a wide-brimmed hat pulled low, and large dark sunglasses.
She was gripping the iron bars, staring intently at the house.
Specifically, she was staring at Noah, who was sitting on the patio steps playing with his braille keyboard.
My protective instincts flared instantly.
"Can I help you?" I called out, walking toward the gate.
The woman flinched.
She quickly let go of the bars and took a step back into the shadows of the large oak trees lining the street.
"No," she said. Her voice was raspy, muffled. "Just admiring the gardens."
"This is private property," I said firmly, reaching the gate. "The public street is a block down."
The woman didn't move away.
She tilted her head, her dark sunglasses reflecting the morning sun.
"You're the new one," she murmured.
I frowned. "Excuse me?"
"The new mother," she said, her voice dripping with something that sounded like sorrow, or maybe bitterness. "He replaced her faster than I thought he would."
My blood ran cold.
"Who are you?" I demanded.
Before she could answer, a black sedan pulled up sharply to the curb behind her.
The back door opened.
A man in a dark suit stepped out. He didn't look like an Uber driver. He looked like muscle.
"It's time to go," the man said to the woman.
The woman looked at me one last time.
She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out something small.
She tossed it through the iron bars.
It landed in the grass at my feet.
"Tell the boy his mother says happy birthday," the woman whispered.
She got into the sedan, and the car sped away.
I stood frozen, my heart pounding in my ears.
Slowly, I looked down at the grass.
I picked up the object.
It was a small, silver winding key.
The exact kind of key that belonged to a child's porcelain music box.
A music box that played a song Noah's mother used to sing to him.
I stared at the empty street, the hair on my arms standing up.
Caroline Moretti had died three years ago.
May you like
Luca had buried her.
So who the hell was the woman in the trench coat?
