Chapter 3 - THE MAID WITH HAZEL EYES
By ten o'clock that evening, the Long Island estate was under total security lockdown.
Rain lashed against the tall leaded-glass windows of my library. A fire crackled in the massive stone fireplace, casting long, dancing shadows across the mahogany bookshelves and leather armchairs.
I sat behind my desk, a crystal tumbler of amber scotch sitting untouched near my hand.
Marco knocked twice before opening the heavy oak doors. He gestured for the young maid to step inside, then closed the doors behind her, remaining outside to guard the hallway.
She stepped into the warm glow of the firelight. Without her flour-smeared apron, she looked even younger—perhaps twenty-four or twenty-five—dressed in a simple black sweater and jeans. She stood straight, her chin slightly raised, refusing to bow her head in fear despite the lingering tension in the house.
"Sit down," I said, pointing to the leather chair across from my desk.
"I prefer to stand, Mr. Russo," she replied. Her voice was clean, quiet, and possessed an unexpected, steady resonance.
I looked at her file resting on my desk—a file Marco had compiled in thirty minutes flat.
"Clara Vance," I read aloud, running my thumb over her background sheet. "Twenty-four years old. Born in upstate New York. Former nursing student at Columbia, dropped out two years ago due to financial difficulties. No criminal record. Hired by Rosa three weeks ago as a live-in housekeeper."
Clara remained silent, her hands clasped behind her back.
"My daughters haven't made a sound in over a year, Clara," I said, leaning forward, resting my forearms on the polished mahogany. "Psychiatrists who charge a thousand dollars an hour couldn't get a reaction out of them. Yet today, I found them laughing with you. And three minutes later, my eldest daughter spoke her first words."
"I didn't teach her to say those words, Mr. Russo," Clara said firmly, her hazel eyes meeting mine without flinching. "If that's what you're implying."
"Then why were they laughing?" I demanded. "What did you do?"
"I treated them like children," Clara replied simply. "Not like glass dolls. Not like victims. Not like ghosts in an expensive house. I sat on the floor, I spilled flour, I acted like a fool, and I let them see that the world isn't entirely made of dark rooms and men in black suits."
I stared at her. The sheer nerve of this girl talking to me like that would have gotten any man in New York thrown into the Hudson River. But looking at her, I saw no malice, no deceit—only an fierce, unyielding devotion to those three motherless girls.
"Lucia thinks I killed her mother," I said softly, the weight of the confession threatening to crush my chest.
Clara’s expression softened slightly, the defensiveness leaving her face. "Lucia doesn't think you pulled the trigger, Mr. Russo."
I froze. "What do you mean?"
Clara took a slow step closer to the desk. "Over the past three weeks, while you were away in Europe handling your logistics business, I stayed in the nursery with them every night. Lucia draws when she can't sleep. She draws the same picture over and over again."
Clara reached into her cardigan pocket, pulled out a folded piece of heavy drawing paper, and laid it gently on my desk.
I reached out with a trembling hand and unfolded it.
It was a crayon sketch drawn in crude, child-like strokes. It showed a black car surrounded by rain. Inside the car was a blonde woman—Isabella—holding three small children. Outside the car window stood a tall man in a dark coat, holding a gun.
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On the man's wrist, the child had drawn a bright red circle with a silver circle inside it.
"She doesn't think you killed her mother," Clara whispered, looking down at the drawing. "She thinks the man who killed her mother took your identity. She thinks the man with your watch... was you."
