Chapter 5 - The Enemy at the Table
Andrew ordered everyone employed at the mansion into the ballroom.
Cooks.
Drivers.
Housekeepers.
Groundskeepers.
Security staff.
Twenty-seven people stood beneath crystal chandeliers while police quietly checked names, phones, employment histories and movements.
Rachel remained upstairs with Evan and Ben.
Andrew wanted to stay with her.
Instead, he stood beside Detective Ortiz and looked at people he had trusted enough to sleep beneath the same roof.
“Cynthia said someone here?” he asked.
“Someone connected to the household.”
“That could mean current or former staff.”
“Yes.”
“What exactly did she say?”
Ortiz checked her notes.
“Eighteen months ago, Cynthia received instructions to administer a lethal overdose to Rachel at St. Catherine’s.”
Andrew’s stomach twisted.
“She refused?”
“She says she did.”
“Why?”
“Money.”
Andrew almost laughed.
“Of course.”
“She realized a living Rachel was worth more as insurance than a dead one. Cynthia moved her out before the clinic closed and arranged placement through a charitable housing program under the identity Mara Lewis.”
“So Cynthia saved her?”
“For selfish reasons, apparently.”
Rachel’s later life began making sense.
She had moved through transitional housing.
Worked hotel housekeeping.
Seen neurologists when she could afford them.
No one had connected her to Rachel Calloway because Rachel Calloway was legally dead.
“Who gave the order?”
“Cynthia says she received it through Julian Cross.”
“Then why not Julian?”
“Because Cross told her he was relaying instructions.”
“From Victoria?”
“No.”
Andrew stared.
“Who?”
“She claims she never knew.”
Marcus approached.
“Sir.”
“What?”
“We found something in Mrs. Carter’s office.”
Andrew turned.
The household manager had worked for the Calloways for thirteen years.
She had helped raise Evan and Ben.
She had hired Mara.
Andrew’s blood chilled.
“What did you find?”
“A photograph.”
Marcus handed it over.
Cynthia Ross.
Standing beside Mrs. Carter.
The image had been taken twelve years earlier at a hospital charity event.
Andrew looked across the ballroom.
Mrs. Carter stood among the staff.
Gray-haired.
Sixty-two.
Hands clasped calmly.
She met his eyes.
Then looked at the photograph.
And sighed.
“Mrs. Carter,” Andrew called.
Every head turned.
She stepped forward.
“You know Cynthia Ross.”
“Yes.”
Rachel’s voice came from behind them.
Andrew turned.
She had entered the ballroom.
“Rachel.”
“I’m done hiding upstairs.”
Evan and Ben were with Marcus’s wife in the secured family wing.
Rachel crossed the room.
Mrs. Carter looked at her.
Tears filled the older woman’s eyes.
“I knew the moment you interviewed.”
Andrew went still.
“What?”
Mrs. Carter smiled sadly.
“You touched the teacup three times before drinking.”
Rachel stared.
“You knew?”
“I suspected.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because if I was wrong, I would have destroyed everyone.”
Andrew’s anger rose.
“You should have told me.”
“Yes.”
“You hired her.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Mrs. Carter looked at Rachel.
“Because Cynthia called me.”
The room seemed to contract.
“When?” Ortiz asked.
“Seven weeks ago.”
Mrs. Carter explained.
She and Cynthia had been nurses together in their twenties.
They lost contact after Cynthia moved away.
Seven weeks earlier, Cynthia called unexpectedly.
She said there was a woman named Mara who needed stable work.
“She told me Mara had survived severe trauma and had memory problems.”
Andrew’s voice was hard.
“And you hired her without telling me any of that?”
“I conducted a background check.”
“On a fake identity.”
“I didn’t know it was fake.”
Rachel stepped closer.
“What did Cynthia tell you about me?”
“That you were gentle.”
Mrs. Carter’s voice trembled.
“That you were good with children.”
She laughed through tears.
“She knew exactly what she was doing.”
Andrew understood.
Cynthia had deliberately sent Rachel home.
Maybe because she feared whoever ordered Rachel’s death.
Maybe because keeping Rachel close to Andrew was the safest place.
Ortiz asked, “Did Cynthia say anything else?”
Mrs. Carter nodded.
“She said if Mara ever remembered a song, I should call her.”
Andrew felt cold.
“The lullaby.”
“I didn’t know what she meant.”
“Did you call?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
Mrs. Carter looked ashamed.
“Tonight.”
Andrew’s pulse jumped.
“What time?”
“About ten thirty.”
Before they discovered the hidden letter.
Before Victoria fled.
Before the Grand Central locker was opened.
“Did Cynthia answer?”
“No.”
“Did you leave a message?”
“Yes.”
Ortiz closed her eyes.
“Anyone with access to Cynthia’s phone could have heard it.”
Andrew looked at the staff.
The leak might not have been inside his house after all.
But something still bothered Rachel.
She approached Mrs. Carter.
“Why did Cynthia know about my song?”
The older woman shook her head.
“I don’t know.”
Rachel looked toward Ortiz.
“Ask her.”
Ortiz called the officers holding Cynthia.
The answer came fifteen minutes later.
Cynthia had heard Rachel sing in the clinic.
At night.
Alone.
Sometimes Rachel would sit beside the window and sing the same lullaby to children she believed existed only in her imagination.
Cynthia remembered it.
So when Rachel began recalling details of wealthy homes and two little boys, Cynthia started investigating.
Eventually, she discovered the truth.
By then, Samuel Hale was dead.
Victoria had inherited his remaining medical interests.
Julian Cross was closing St. Catherine’s.
Cynthia panicked.
She moved Rachel.
Months later, she quietly engineered the job referral that returned Rachel to the Calloway mansion.
“Why not tell the police?” Andrew demanded.
Ortiz relayed Cynthia’s answer.
Because Cynthia herself had committed crimes.
Kidnapping.
Falsifying records.
Illegal medication.
Obstruction.
She had helped hide Rachel for money during the first year.
Only later had guilt and fear changed her behavior.
Andrew looked at Rachel.
“How do you feel?”
“I don’t know.”
That sentence had become her answer to almost everything.
But this time she added:
“I think she did something terrible and then something good.”
Ortiz nodded.
“Both can be true.”
Marcus’s phone buzzed.
He read a message.
His face changed.
“Sir.”
Andrew turned.
“Julian Cross just used a credit card.”
“Where?”
“A gas station outside Hartford.”
Ortiz was already calling state police.
Rachel suddenly gripped Andrew’s arm.
“Wait.”
He looked at her.
“What?”
“Julian.”
She closed her eyes.
“I remember him.”
The memory came violently.
Rachel was at the country house.
Smoke had not started yet.
Julian stood in the study.
Victoria beside him.
Rachel was holding a kitchen knife because she had walked in and found two people searching the walls.
She had screamed at them to leave.
Julian raised both hands.
He told Victoria they had gone too far.
Victoria shouted that Rachel would ruin everything.
Then another voice spoke from behind Rachel.
A voice she trusted.
Rachel opened her eyes.
“No.”
Andrew’s heart pounded.
“What?”
“There was someone else.”
“Who?”
Rachel began backing away.
“No.”
Andrew caught her shoulders.
“Rachel.”
She looked at him with horror.
“Your father.”
Andrew released her.
“My father?”
Charles Calloway.
Seventy-one.
Former chairman of Calloway Industries.
Grandfather to Evan and Ben.
The man who had collapsed at Rachel’s funeral and wept into Andrew’s shoulder.
“He was there,” Rachel whispered.
Andrew shook his head.
“No.”
“I saw him.”
“Rachel, my father loved you.”
“I remember him.”
“No.”
The word came harder.
Too hard.
Rachel flinched.
Andrew immediately hated himself.
Ortiz intervened quietly.
“Memory recovery can be complicated. We verify before concluding.”
Rachel looked at Andrew.
“You don’t believe me.”
“I believe you remember something.”
“That isn’t the same.”
“No.”
Andrew’s jaw tightened.
“It isn’t.”
A voice sounded from the doorway.
“I can settle this.”
Everyone turned.
Charles Calloway entered the ballroom.
Silver-haired.
Straight-backed.
Dressed in a dark overcoat.
He looked at Rachel.
His face did not show surprise.
It showed sorrow.
Andrew stared.
“Dad?”
Charles walked forward slowly.
“I received Marcus’s message.”
“I didn’t message him,” Marcus said.
Charles stopped.
For one second, nobody moved.
Then Marcus reached for his weapon.
Charles lifted his hands.
“Easy.”
Andrew looked at his father.
“How did you know Rachel was here?”
Charles’s eyes closed briefly.
When he opened them, they were wet.
“Because I have known she was alive for almost two years.”
Rachel made a sound of disbelief.
Andrew felt something inside him go completely cold.
“You knew?”
“Yes.”
“You let me bury her.”
“I believed she was dead then.”
“But later?”
Charles looked at his son.
“I found out later.”
“You knew my children’s mother was alive.”
“Yes.”
“And you said nothing.”
Charles whispered, “I was trying to keep all of you alive.”
Andrew struck him.
The sound cracked through the ballroom.
Charles staggered but did not fall.
Andrew had never hit his father in his life.
He wanted to do it again.
Rachel grabbed his arm.
“Andrew.”
He pulled free.
“Tell me everything.”
Charles touched his bleeding lip.
“Not here.”
“You don’t get to choose.”
Charles looked around at the staff and police.
Then at Rachel.
“All right.”
He took a breath.
“Victoria stole money from the foundation.”
Andrew waited.
“So did Julian.”
“Your involvement?”
Charles hesitated.
“I covered it up.”
Rachel stared.
“Why?”
“Because the money wasn’t the worst thing they were hiding.”
Ortiz stepped closer.
“What was?”
Charles looked at Andrew.
“Samuel Hale had been using one of our medical charities to move patients into unregulated clinical trials.”
Silence.
“People were injured,” Charles continued. “Two died.”
Andrew’s face drained.
“You knew?”
“I discovered it weeks before the fire.”
“And did nothing?”
“I planned to force Samuel to shut it down quietly.”
Rachel stared at him.
“Quietly.”
Charles nodded.
“Yes.”
“So your name wouldn’t be damaged.”
“So thousands of innocent employees and charitable programs wouldn’t collapse with him.”
Rachel’s voice sharpened.
“You mean so your name wouldn’t be damaged.”
Charles did not answer.
Andrew understood.
His father had chosen reputation.
Then everything escalated.
“Were you at the country house?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Rachel called me.”
Andrew turned toward her.
Rachel’s eyes widened.
Charles continued.
“She had found the financial records. She told me she was going to the FBI.”
“What did you do?”
“I went to stop her.”
Rachel’s face hardened.
“You threatened me.”
Charles closed his eyes.
“Yes.”
Andrew’s hands curled into fists.
“Did you start the fire?”
“No.”
“Did you help Victoria?”
“No.”
“Then who did?”
Charles looked toward the window.
“Julian.”
Rachel whispered, “No.”
Charles’s face changed.
“What?”
Rachel pressed a hand to her temple.
“The fire started before Julian left.”
Charles froze.
“How?”
“I smelled gasoline.”
Andrew’s stomach turned.
Charles looked genuinely confused.
“I never knew that.”
Rachel stared at him.
“You all thought someone else did it.”
Ortiz slowly nodded.
“Victoria blamed Julian. Julian may have blamed Victoria. Charles believed he was stopping disclosure. Samuel handled the aftermath.”
Andrew looked around.
A conspiracy built on selfish people protecting different secrets.
But perhaps none of them had intended the fire.
Which meant another person had.
Marcus’s phone rang again.
He answered.
His face hardened.
“What is it?” Andrew asked.
Marcus looked at Rachel.
“State police found Julian’s car.”
“Where?”
“Abandoned.”
“And Julian?”
“Missing.”
Marcus swallowed.
“There was blood in the driver’s seat.”
Rachel went still.
Marcus continued.
“And a message written on the windshield.”
Andrew’s voice dropped.
“What message?”
May you like
Marcus looked directly at him.
SHE SHOULD HAVE DIED THE FIRST TIME.
