Page 20 of The Silent Princess

It is my office. Why does it feel like it would be an intrusion? Hunting teaches patience, and even if patience is not my natural default state, I have learned its advantages.

I open the report again; the few pieces of information Brenton managed to gather are too thin for my liking, though I will admit that inserting this into the Vodianov investigation was demanding, so I will oblige and dig deeper another time.

Preliminary Subject Report

PREPARED FOR: TRISTAN ASHFORD

Prepared by: Brenton McHallord

Date: January 22, 2026

Status: Initial findings, further verification pending

Name: Ella Brooks

Age: 22

Date of Birth: March 17, 2003

Place of Birth: St. James, Illinois

Marital Status: No marriage record located. Subject doesn’t appear romantically involved.

Education: Former English Literature major at the University of Westhaven. Enrollment appears to have ended in September 2025.

Current Occupation: Cleaner employed by Nightingale Commercial Services, LLC, assigned to several downtown properties, including the Ashford Holdings building.

Current Address: 1847 Briarwood Lane, Westhaven, WA. Subject appears to reside with her father, stepmother, and two stepsisters.

Father: Grant Brooks, retired. Former owner of Brooks Residential Group. Current health status appears limited, with private nursing support observed.

Mother: Mei-Lin Brooks, born Zhang, deceased. Cause of death pending confirmation.

Stepmother: Mara Brooks, born Peterson, CEO and creative director of Ethereal Design, a company based in Westhaven.

Distinct Observation: Subject’s mutism is confirmed from birth. Pediatric medical records from May 2003 indicate congenital malformation of the vocal cords resulting in an inability to produce speech. See attached medical report.

Banking: Limited information available. The subject does not appear to be attached to any active personal banking account under her legal name. No credit card activity, vehicle registration, property ownership, or lease agreement located.

* * *

That was…insightful. Not only has she been mute from birth, lost her mother, and had to give up on her studies, but she appears to have no one in her corner taking care of her financially, which could explain her having to stop studying. Still, there’s a gap–a huge one. Her parents were wealthy. Her stepmother is too. Why is she working here? And why are her clothes in such a state of despair? She should be drowning in fine jewelry and luxury bags, not wrapped in worn jeans with a crumbling purse pressed to her chest. Logic tells me to drop it, to let this stranger go on with her secrets, but another part of me, a part much more engulfed by instinct, wants to know more. To know things I have no right to know, to help a girl I should not be this compelled to help, all because she made the damn dead thing beneath my ribs jolt for a second.

I slide my phone onto the desk and focus back on the monitor. Four screens capture her from every angle of my office. The camera near the sailboat photograph has a perfect view of the side of her face as she drifts away from herself, allowing a few minutes of respite. I can only see half of her face, the other half remaining in darkness. I rise, bumping my thigh against the desk, ready to go to her.

As if in tune with me, she stands too. I freeze, watching her retrieve something from her bag before walking with determination behind my desk. With the grace of a ballerina, she places the money I gave her onto the desk, then adds a piece of paper on top. My jaw grinds because I cannot read it from this distance. So she is not interested in money at all. Only fools return five thousand dollars when they need it: fools or honest people. The latter has become a rarity since I took the lead of the company. It is hard to trust anyone’s genuineness when you hold their fate in the palm of your hand. I needed to know. Now I do.

She leaves, and my eyes stay locked on her, on the grace of her movement, on her long onyx hair, on the way her steps seem more tired than when she first entered the floor. I call the front desk and am greeted by Ronny, my night doorman.

“Ronny speaking. What can I do for you?”

“Ronny, it’s Tristan Ashford. I would like you to offer Mrs Brooks a ride home with my chauffeur. Paul is waiting outside. I would hate to know she returned home unsafely.”

“Of- of course, sir. I will take care of it.”

“And Ronny?”

“Yes, sir?”