Chapter 3 - THE CHILD'S DRAWING
The silence inside Eleanor’s beat-up Volvo was suffocating. Outside, the rain lashed against the windshield, blurring the streetlights into streaks of ugly yellow.
I stared at her profile. Her hands were relaxed on the steering wheel, completely at odds with the bomb she had just dropped in that police station.
"Where did you get it?" I demanded, my voice cracking. "That’s my mother’s watch."
"I know whose it is, Leo," Eleanor said softly, not taking her eyes off the road.
"You've been working for us for six months. My mother has been gone for five years. Did you steal it? Did you find it in the house?"
"I bought it," Eleanor replied. "At a pawn shop in the South End. Three days ago."
That was the first answer, but it only ripped a wider hole in the mystery. "Why were you looking for my mother's jewelry in a pawn shop?"
"I wasn't looking for jewelry. I was looking for leverage." She turned the steering wheel sharply, navigating the winding roads leading up to Fairhaven Manor. "Your family has powerful enemies. I needed something to keep them at bay. When I saw the willow crest, I knew its value."
I wanted to believe her. Her tone was steady, logical, comforting. But a cold knot of paranoia was forming in my stomach. She was too calm. She knew too much.
When we pushed through the heavy oak doors of Fairhaven Manor, the grand foyer was dark, save for the dim chandelier above. My older brother, Vincent, was standing at the top of the sweeping staircase. At nineteen, Vincent carried the bitter, hardened look of a boy who had been forced to be the man of the house while our father chased billions across the globe.
"You bailed him out," Vincent said, his voice dripping with venom. He marched down the stairs, his eyes locked on Eleanor. "How much did you pay them? Or did you just use my father's name, like the parasite you are?"
"I didn't use your father's name, Vincent," Eleanor said evenly, removing her coat.
"Don't lie to me!" Vincent snapped, closing the distance between them. "I checked the security logs, Eleanor. You were in my father's private study yesterday. You’re a spy. He planted you here to monitor us because he doesn’t have the guts to do it himself."
I looked at Eleanor, expecting her to deny it. She didn't.
Before I could speak, a small voice echoed from the hallway. "She's not a spy."
Seven-year-old Toby stood in his oversized pajamas, rubbing his eyes. In his small hand, he clutched a crumpled piece of paper. He walked over to Eleanor, not looking at Vincent or me.
"Toby, go back to bed," Vincent ordered.
"I went into Eleanor's room to find my stuffed bear," Toby mumbled, looking down at the paper. "I found this in her drawer."
Toby dropped the paper onto the marble floor. It smoothed out slightly.
It was a crayon drawing. Four stick figures—boys of varying heights. At the bottom, in messy, childlike scrawl, it read: Vincent, Leo, Sam, Toby.
But the date in the corner was what made my blood turn to ice. It was dated five years ago.
"Toby," I whispered. "Did you draw that?"
May you like
Toby shook his head. "No. The lady who made us cry drew it."
I looked at Eleanor. The calm mask she wore was finally slipping. Her hands were trembling. She had known us. She had known our family long before she ever walked through the doors as a housekeeper.
