Chapter 10 - THE WOMAN DECLAN COULD NOT FORGETThe mansion felt different after Victor's arrest.
The staff moved more quietly. The security team questioned everyone who had worked for Arthur. The old archive remained sealed while investigators examined the documents recovered from the warehouse.
Clary stayed because Tommy needed medical care and because, for the first time in months, she could sleep without expecting someone to break down her door.
But she refused to become another person living under Declan's protection without a choice.
She continued working in the kitchen, helped Margaret organize the household, and insisted on keeping her wages.
“You don't have to work here anymore,” Declan told her one afternoon.
They stood in the garden, where autumn leaves scattered across the stone path.
“I know.”
“I can pay off every debt you have.”
“I know.”
“I can arrange a home for you and Tommy.”
“I know, Declan.”
He exhaled.
“Then why do you keep saying it like I'm missing something?”
“Because you keep offering to solve my life instead of asking what I want.”
He fell silent.
Clary softened.
“I appreciate what you've done. I do. But I spent months feeling like my life belonged to people who had more money and power than I did. I don't want to exchange one kind of control for another.”
“I don't want to control you.”
“Then let me make my own decisions.”
He nodded.
“All right.”
She looked surprised.
“All right?”
“You make your own decisions. I'll offer help when you ask for it.”
“And if I never ask?”
“Then I'll try very hard not to interfere.”
For the first time, she laughed.
It was a small sound, but Declan felt it settle somewhere deep inside him.
Over the following days, they began spending time together without an emergency forcing them into the same room.
Clary discovered that Declan hated birthday cake, preferred black coffee, and read old history books when he couldn't sleep.
Declan learned that Clary sang when she was sad, that she kept every birthday card Tommy had ever given her, and that she dreamed of opening a music school for children who couldn't afford lessons.
“Why don't you sing professionally?” he asked one evening.
She shrugged.
“Because dreams don't pay hospital bills.”
“They could.”
“Not everyone gets a chance.”
He studied her.
“What if you had one?”
She looked away.
“Then I'd be terrified of losing it.”
The honesty in her answer made him understand that helping her would require more than money.
It would require patience.
Meanwhile, the investigation uncovered a second financial account connected to Victor. It contained payments made to a private adoption agency twenty years earlier.
The records named a child born to a woman identified only as Elena Knox.
The child had been placed with a family in Pennsylvania under a different surname.
But the file was incomplete.
A photograph showed a little girl standing beside a woman whose face had been torn from the image.
Declan studied it in his office.
“Can we locate the adoption agency?”
His investigator nodded.
“We're trying. The agency closed years ago, and the records were transferred to a private foundation.”
“Who runs it?”
The investigator placed a document on the desk.
“Someone named Catherine Reed.”
Declan stared at the name.
He knew Catherine.
She was a respected philanthropist who funded children's hospitals and education programs across the East Coast.
She had also been one of the five hundred guests at his birthday celebration.
Clary entered the office carrying a tray.
She noticed the photograph.
“Who's that little girl?”
“Possibly my sister.”
Clary set down the tray.
“Have you met her?”
“No.”
“Then you don't know what she's like.”
Declan looked at her.
“What do you mean?”
“You're looking at a photograph and trying to decide what her life means to you. Maybe she doesn't want anything to do with the Knox family.”
He considered that.
“You're right.”
Clary smiled faintly.
“You're learning.”
He almost smiled back.
Then the investigator's phone rang.
He listened for several seconds before turning pale.
“Sir, we found Catherine Reed.”
“Where?”
“She's dead.”
Declan rose.
“When?”
“Three hours ago. Police are calling it a burglary.”
The investigator placed a second photograph on the desk.
It showed Catherine's apartment.
A shattered window.
An overturned chair.
And a message written across the wall in black paint.
THE KNOX FAMILY HAS NO HEIRS LEFT TO FIND.
Declan looked at Clary.
May you like
Someone had discovered their investigation.
And someone was willing to kill to keep the truth buried.
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