Chapter 2 - THE BLUE SONGBIRD
I stood six feet from the iron gate, the autumn wind blowing cold across the driveway.
"Emily, sweetie, come back to Daddy," Victoria pleaded from behind me, her voice trembling as she reached out to grab our daughter's hand.
Emily didn't move. Her small body was pressed tight against the wrought-iron bars, her hazel eyes locked onto the homeless woman kneeling in the dirt outside.
"Where did you get that?" I asked, my voice dropping into a dangerous, low register.
The woman looked up. Up close, despite the dirt smudged across her hollow cheeks and the raw, chapped skin around her mouth, her eyes were strikingly sharp—a brilliant, icy blue that showed no signs of mental confusion or substance abuse.
"She remembers the song, Jonathan," the woman whispered. Her voice was coarse, like dry leaves scraping over stone.
My heart slammed against my ribs. She knew my name.
"Marcus," I ordered, gesturing to my security chief. "Open the side pedestrian gate. Bring her inside."
"Sir," Marcus warned quietly, stepping between me and the gate. "We haven't swept her. We don't know who she is or what she's carrying in that cart."
"I don't care," I growled, grabbing his arm. "Open the gate. Now."
Marcus signaled two of his men. The heavy electronic lock buzzed, and the iron side door swung open with a heavy metallic click.
The woman didn't hesitate. She stood up, leaving her rusted shopping cart on the curb, and walked onto my property with a slow, deliberate posture that didn't belong to a street vagrant. She held the carved blue songbird in her right palm, offering it forward.
Emily reached out with both hands and took the wooden bird. She pressed it against her chest, closed her eyes, and let out a long, shuddering sob.
"Birdie..." Emily whispered softly into her sweater. "Birdie in the box."
Victoria gasped, covering her mouth with both hands. Tears streamed down her face. "She's talking... oh God, Jonathan, she's talking!"
I dropped to one knee beside my daughter, my hands shaking as I touched her shoulders. "Emily, baby... look at me. Who gave you that toy?"
Emily didn't look at me. She pointed her finger at the homeless woman. "The lady in the cellar."
The air left my lungs.
My mansion in Greenwich did not have a cellar accessible to the main house—only a modern wine cellar built three years ago beneath the east wing. But thirty years ago, my father's old estate in upstate New York had a deep, stone fruit cellar beneath the foundation.
I turned my head slowly to look at the woman.
"Who are you?" I demanded, standing up to my full height, stepping between her and my family.
May you like
The woman reached up with a dirty, claw-like hand and slowly pulled back the matted gray wig she was wearing. Beneath it sat cropped, dark hair and a faint, thin surgical scar running from her left temple down to her jawline.
"My name is Eleanor Vance," she said quietly. "Thirty years ago, I was your father's chief archivist at Sterling Industrial. And three years ago, I watched your wife and mother-in-law lock your daughter in an underground room while you were in London."
