“I don’t need them. I came into a windfall of sorts and Granny Irene is declining faster than the doctors hoped. I want every minute I can possibly get with her.”
He scanned the letter quickly, then leaned back in his chair. Something soft passed over his face — sympathy, and something else I couldn’t quite define.
“Then don’t waste a single one here. We’ll reassign your caseload today.”
“Thank you,” I said, voice steadier than I felt. “Really.”
He nodded.
“Go take care of your family, Chrissy. You’ve earned it.”
The ease with which he said it nearly undid me. No interrogation. No skepticism. Just trust. I nodded quickly, afraid that if I spoke now, I’d betray how fragile I felt holding myself together.
“You good?” Jason cocked his head, his too-perceptive gray eyes studying me closely.
I forced myself to swallow the lump in my throat and spoke anyway.
“Yeah, but there’s one more thing before I go.”
He raised a brow.
“There’s a woman who might need help soon. Lucia. Her divorce… it’s bad. She’s scared, and her husband’s the kind who doesn’t take no for an answer. You’re the best at handling cases like this. Please… if she reaches out to you, take her on.”
His jaw tightened, the telltale sign he was already invested.
“Send her my direct line. I’ll make sure she doesn’t get steamrolled.”
Relief eased a fraction of the ache in my chest.
“Thank you.”
I didn’t tell him that I had no idea how to get in touch with her to get his number to her right now. I would have had to explain far too much, and I didn’t have it in me to have that conversation with Jason.
I left the office without looking back, coat pulled tight against the winter chill. The decision to go to Ashgrove House didn’t hit me fully until I was back in my car. I sat there for a moment with the engine running, hands resting uselessly in my lap. This wasn’t part of any plan. It was instinct. Worry. A refusal to sit still while people I cared about disappeared without explanation. I pulled out of the lot before I could talk myself out of it.
Ben’s ancestral mansion loomed on its hill like something out of a gothic novel — a rambling navy-blue Victorian with tall white columns, white trim, white shutters, turrets, wraparound porches, wrought-iron gates, and pines crowding close around it like sentinels. I’d only ever seen distant photos before. Up close, it felt imposing and untouchable.
A man in a crisp, starched uniform opened the massive front door before I could even knock. He was in his mid-fifties and had a polished demeanor, with the kind of neutral expression that screamed of professional detachment.
“May I help you?” he asked, his voice clipped and cool.
“I’m looking for Ben Stonewood. Or Henry. Or anyone who can tell me what’s going on, honestly.”
He didn’t blink.
“Mr. Stonewood is not in residence at present.”
“But I know he’s not at the hunting lodge, either,” I pressed, stepping closer. “The place was ransacked and empty. I’m worried — about him, about Henry, and about Lucia. If they’re here?—”
“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss Mr. Stonewood’s private affairs with members of the public,” he cut in smoothly, his tone icing over. “If Mr. Stonewood wished for you — whoever you are — to know his whereabouts or activities, I believe he would contact you himself.”
The words landed like a slap.
Something inside me fractured at that. I saw Ben’s handwriting in my mind, the way his letters crowded the page like he was afraid of running out of time. I felt the familiar weight of his mother’s ring on my finger, hidden beneath my glove but burning all the same.
Whoever you are.
As if I were just some random woman off the street, not the one who’d bandaged Ben’s hand four years ago. Not the one he’d built an entire twisted game around, just so he could have me.
