Chapter 3 - Warehouse Number Seven
At 2:13 the next morning, Ruth's phone rang.
She woke instantly.
Mothers of sick children did not sleep deeply.
They waited.
Every cough was a warning.
Every vibration from a phone could become the dividing line between before and after.
She reached for it in darkness.
"Hello?"
Silence.
Then a man's voice.
"Mrs. Brangan?"
She sat up.
"Who is this?"
"Your daughter should not return to Howerin House."
The call ended.
For several seconds, Ruth didn't move.
Poppy slept beside her because the heat in the child's bedroom had broken again. Moonlight rested across her face.
Ruth stared at the phone.
Unknown number.
She called back.
Nothing.
Her first thought was August.
Then she immediately rejected it.
If August wanted her gone, he would tell her to leave.
He didn't seem like a man who hid behind anonymous calls.
Her second thought was worse.
Someone else knew about Poppy.
At breakfast, Ruth said nothing.
She made oatmeal.
She braided Poppy's hair.
She walked her to Mrs. Alvarez upstairs, who watched her on workdays for twenty dollars and whatever groceries Ruth could spare.
Then Ruth took two buses to Howerin House because she refused to use August's car again.
Walter noticed her face immediately.
"What happened?"
"Nothing."
"You are an extraordinarily poor liar."
"I'm fine."
Walter handed her a silver coffee pot.
"Mr. Howerin is in the breakfast room."
Ruth took it.
She made it six steps before stopping.
"Walter?"
"Hm?"
"Who is Daniel?"
The old man's face emptied.
Not changed.
Emptied.
As though someone had turned off a light behind his eyes.
"Where did you hear that name?"
"Yesterday. You said something outside the study."
Walter set down the papers he was carrying.
"Did Mr. Howerin hear you ask?"
"No."
"Then don't ask again."
Ruth frowned.
"You told me there were three forbidden subjects."
"I forgot one."
"Daniel?"
Walter walked away.
That should have been enough warning.
It wasn't.
At breakfast, August barely spoke.
He ate eggs he did not appear to taste while reading reports from three different newspapers.
Ruth poured coffee.
He glanced at her hand.
It shook.
"What happened?"
"Nothing."
His eyes rose.
Ruth nearly laughed.
Everyone in that house seemed to know when she lied.
"I'm tired."
"Why?"
"I have a six-year-old."
"That explanation could cover the next twelve years."
She looked at him.
Was that humor?
His face remained perfectly serious.
A laugh escaped her anyway.
August stared.
Ruth stopped.
"I'm sorry."
"For what?"
"I don't know."
"Then don't apologize."
She placed the pot down.
That was when she noticed the envelope beside his plate.
It was from Johns Hopkins.
Her stomach dropped.
She knew the logo.
She knew the shape of hospital correspondence.
August saw her looking.
He folded the envelope beneath the newspaper.
Too late.
"Why do you have a letter from my daughter's hospital?"
Silence.
August placed his fork down.
Ruth's heartbeat quickened.
"Mr. Howerin?"
"I made an inquiry."
"About what?"
"Treatment."
"You did what?"
The room changed.
The two servants near the wall quietly disappeared.
August leaned back.
"Sit down."
"No."
"Mrs. Brangan—"
"No. You don't get to investigate my child."
"I didn't investigate her."
"Then why does her hospital know your name?"
"Because I asked whether a private foundation could cover experimental treatment."
Ruth froze.
August continued.
"No medical information was given to me."
"You called them?"
"My attorney did."
"Without asking me?"
"I intended to ask."
"When? After you bought the hospital?"
His expression hardened.
"Don't be ridiculous."
"You think because you have money, you can walk into people's lives and rearrange them."
"Your daughter needs treatment."
"Yes."
"And you cannot afford it."
The words landed like a slap.
Ruth went still.
August knew immediately.
His face changed.
But damage had already been done.
"I know I'm poor," she said softly. "I don't need you to announce it."
"I didn't mean—"
"You don't know what I can afford because you don't know what I've sold."
August said nothing.
"My wedding ring is gone. My mother's necklace is gone. My car is gone. Half our furniture is gone. I work until my feet bleed. I choose which bills get paid based on which company threatens us the loudest."
Her voice cracked.
"And every morning I wake up smiling because my daughter is six years old and thinks I can fix everything."
August looked at her as though each sentence had struck somewhere beneath his ribs.
Ruth wiped her cheek angrily.
"So no. You don't get to make me feel small because you can write a check."
"I wasn't trying to make you small."
"Then what were you trying to do?"
August looked away.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Finally:
"Save someone."
Ruth's anger faltered.
There it was again.
The grief she had glimpsed before.
Old.
Buried.
Alive.
"Who couldn't you save?"
August's gaze snapped back.
"Go to work."
"August—"
It was the first time she had used his name.
Both heard it.
His face closed instantly.
"Go. To. Work."
Ruth left.
At noon, she found a photograph.
She had been dusting the long west corridor when a gust from an open window knocked one frame crooked.
Ruth straightened it.
The glass reflected her face.
Behind it was a family portrait.
August looked younger.
Unscarred.
Standing beside an older man Ruth assumed was his father.
And between them stood a little boy.
Four, perhaps five.
Dark hair.
Serious eyes.
He was holding a blue wooden horse.
Ruth's breath caught.
Daniel.
She knew without being told.
A maid entered behind her.
Ruth turned.
"Who is the boy?"
The maid went pale.
"I don't know."
"Yes, you do."
"No."
She walked away so quickly she nearly ran.
Ruth looked back at the photograph.
There was writing engraved on a small brass plaque.
AUGUST HOWERIN, EDMUND HOWERIN, DANIEL VALE.
Not Howerin.
Vale.
That afternoon, rain rolled over Baltimore.
At four, a black sedan entered through the gates.
Vincent Marr stepped out.
He found Ruth in the conservatory trimming dead leaves from enormous tropical plants.
"You must be Mrs. Brangan."
Ruth looked up.
He smiled warmly.
Too warmly.
"Vincent Marr."
He held out his hand.
She shook it.
"I work with August."
"What kind of work?"
Vincent's smile widened.
"The kind polite people don't ask about."
Ruth withdrew her hand.
He laughed softly.
"I like you already."
"I doubt that."
"Good instincts."
He looked toward the windows.
"Your daughter wasn't here today."
Ruth's body stiffened.
Vincent noticed.
"August mentioned her."
"Did he?"
"He's become strangely interested in the child."
Ruth heard the anonymous voice in her mind.
Your daughter should not return to Howerin House.
"Why are you telling me this?"
Vincent turned toward her.
"Because August has a weakness for damaged things."
Ruth's jaw tightened.
"My daughter is not damaged."
"I didn't say she was."
"You meant it."
Vincent's smile faded slightly.
"Then allow me to rephrase. August becomes attached to things he believes he can rescue."
Ruth stared at him.
"What happened to Daniel Vale?"
For the first time, Vincent's control cracked.
Only a fraction.
But Ruth saw it.
"Who told you that name?"
"No one."
Vincent stepped closer.
"You should be careful exploring old rooms."
"And you should stop threatening me."
"I'm trying to help."
"No. You're trying to scare me."
Vincent studied her for a long moment.
Then his pleasant expression returned.
"Maybe those are the same thing in this house."
He walked out.
That night, Ruth found an envelope inside her purse.
She hadn't put it there.
Inside was a newspaper clipping dated ten years earlier.
FIRE AT HOWERIN WAREHOUSE LEAVES SIX DEAD.
Below the headline was a photograph of flames devouring a Baltimore dock building.
Someone had circled a paragraph in red ink.
Among the missing was five-year-old Daniel Vale, ward of prominent businessman Edmund Howerin.
At the bottom of the clipping, someone had written five words.
AUGUST HOWERIN STARTED THE FIRE.
Ruth read the sentence twice.
Then the lights in her apartment went out.
From the hallway outside came the sound of a footstep.
Not Poppy.
Not Mrs. Alvarez.
A man's footstep.
May you like
Ruth reached for the kitchen knife.
The doorknob slowly began to turn.
