“I just wanted to see if you’d like some breakfast,” she says. “I prepared eggs and bacon.”
At the mere mention of eggs, my stomach twists again. I gently move her out of the way and drop back to my knees, burying my head over the toilet.
“How long have you been sick?” she asks.
“I woke up like this,” I manage, choking on my own spit.
She gathers my hair and holds it back while I spill my guts out again. When it passes, I push myself up and move to the sink, splashing water over my face before wiping it dry with a towel. In the mirror, my skin looks ghost-pale, and dark circles sink beneath my eyes.
As I turn, she places a hand on my stomach, pressing lightly. Then she lifts it to my forehead.
“You might be pregnant.”
The words hit so hard I choke on my breath.
“No,” I say. “I can’t be.”
My voice drops to a whisper as I stare at myself in the mirror and take a step back.
She raises a brow. “You remind me of her,” she says.
“Who?” I turn to face her.
“Vivianne,” she says. “She found out the same way.” A small smile touches her mouth. “She was a good person, and I know you are too.”
“Thank you,” I say, then ask, “What was she like?”
“Brilliant,” she says with a soft laugh. “She filled this house with laughter. Nothing was the same after the accident.”
“So you knew she was Helena’s mother?” I ask.
She nods. “She told me everything. We used to be close before she went back to England.”
My lips part to ask her more, but the doorbell rings from downstairs.
“I’ll get it,” she says, then makes her way out.
The moment she’s gone, I walk to the closet, my eyes dragging over everything inside while I try to decide what to wear. In the end, I go with the usual, simple low-waisted jeans and a white blouse. I pull it on, tuck the blouse in, and just as I’m about to slip into my sneakers, Margaret comes back inside.
“Miss Vale,” she says, “the detective is here. He wants to speak with you.”
“To me?” I lift a brow and look at her.
“He says they found something, and they want to talk to you.”
I follow her out of the bedroom, down the stairs, where a man in a black suit waits by the front door.
“Miss Vale,” he says, “we need to speak with you.”
“Is something wrong?” I ask.
But he only says, “Everything is alright. We just need to question everyone who works for Mr. Rosewood.”
“Okay,” I say as I step closer to the door. “Lead the way.”
“I’m coming with you,” Margaret says, following me outside.
We climb into the back seat of the police car, and they drive us to the station. For a while, I start to think the ride might neverend, but it does. By the time we get there, the motion and the smell inside the car have my stomach churning all over again.
