Been with my family for thirty years.
Discreet. Loyal. Asks no questions.
"Mr. Sutherland," she says. "Welcome home."
Her eyes flick to Eden.
Something passes across her face.
Sympathy? Disapproval?
It's gone too quickly to tell.
"Mrs. Silva will show you to your room," I tell Eden. "You'll find everything you need there."
Eden looks between us.
Calculating. Probably wondering if Mrs. Silva will help her.
She won't.
But let Eden hope.
"Come, dear," Mrs. Silva says gently.
Eden follows her into the house.
Up the grand staircase. Down the hall toward the east wing.
I watch until they disappear around the corner.
Then I head to my study.
Pour three fingers of scotch and stand at the window looking out over the dark grounds.
Somewhere upstairs, Eden is being shown to a bedroom.
Being told where the bathroom is, being given fresh clothes and assurances that she's safe.
None of it is true, of course.
She's not safe.
Not from me.
I take a sip of scotch. Let it burn down my throat.
Two million dollars.
I've spent more on art. On cars.
On things that matter less than the woman currently standing in one of my guest bedrooms, probably planning her escape.
It's the best money I've ever spent.
My phone buzzes.
A text from Victor Hargrove.
