Chapter 2 - THE WOMAN IN THE PHOTOGRAPH
Bruno did not open the door.
“Who are you?” he called.
“Elliot Crane. Head of family security.”
Victoria knew the name. Charles had hired Crane after their daughter vanished. He had been beside Charles through the searches, the interviews, and the funeral.
“He doesn’t work for me tonight,” she said.
On the other side of the door, Crane gave a short laugh. “Mrs. Hale, the girl came in through a staff entrance. We need to sort this out before someone calls the police.”
“Someone should call them,” Victoria said.
She took out her phone.
Bruno raised a hand. “Use mine. Your calls go through the family office account.”
Victoria stared at him.
“Why would that matter?”
“I don’t know yet.” Bruno swallowed. “I just know Mr. Crane asked the hotel for your room number before the girl reached the ballroom.”
Victoria dialed 911 from Bruno’s phone and asked for officers to come to the hotel. She reported a child who might be in danger. She did not tell the dispatcher that she thought Rosie was her daughter. She could hardly say it aloud herself.
Crane kept knocking. After a minute, he stopped.
Bruno checked the peephole. “He’s gone.”
Rosie crawled out from under the bed. “Mama said not to go with him.”
“Did she know Mr. Crane?” Victoria asked.
Rosie nodded. “He came to our house before she got sick. They yelled in the kitchen.”
“What did they yell about?”
Rosie looked at the bread under the pillow. “I didn’t listen. Mama told me to hide.”
Victoria wanted to ask a hundred questions. Instead, she went to the room-service cart and found a wrapped sandwich. She set it on the bed, within Rosie’s reach.
“You can eat that,” she said. “And you can keep the roll.”
Rosie watched her for a long moment before picking up the sandwich.
Bruno drew Victoria aside. “I saw Crane outside the loading dock an hour ago. He had a woman with him. She looked scared. The girl was in the back seat.”
“Where is the woman?”
“I don’t know. Crane drove off before I could reach them. Ten minutes later, the girl came in alone through the kitchen.”
Rosie looked up. “Mama’s friend brought me.”
“What friend?” Victoria asked.
“Miss Ada. She said she would meet me by the big doors. But I couldn’t find her, and I got hungry.”
A siren sounded far below. Bruno went to meet the officers and bring them up himself.
While he was gone, Victoria sat on the carpet beside the bed.
“Rosie, did your mama ever show you pictures of me?”
Rosie nodded. “One.”
“Do you have it?”
Rosie reached inside the loose lining of her dress and pulled out a folded photograph. Its edges were soft from being handled.
Victoria opened it.
She was younger in the picture, seated on the floor of Rosalind’s nursery. Five-year-old Rosalind sat in her lap, laughing at something outside the frame. Behind them stood a woman with dark hair tied back.
Victoria knew the woman’s face.
“Lena?”
Lena Ortiz had worked as Rosalind’s nanny. She had disappeared the same day the child did. For eight years, Charles had insisted Lena had taken their daughter to the lake, where both had drowned.
Rosie watched Victoria’s face. “That’s my mama.”
Victoria turned the photograph over. Three words were written on the back in Lena’s neat handwriting:
ASK CHARLES ABOUT TUESDAY.
The nursery had closed on a Tuesday. The lake trip had been on a Saturday.
Victoria looked up at the sound of the suite door opening.
Charles walked in ahead of two police officers.
May you like
His eyes went straight to the photograph.
“Where,” he asked, “did you get that?”
