Chapter 3 - THE THURSDAY LADY
I stared at him, the pearl rosary slipping through my fingers.
"My mother?" I echoed, the room spinning slightly. "My mother works at a nursing home. She didn't even know who you were until I took this catering job."
Gabriel walked over to the window, pulling the heavy velvet curtains shut. "That's what she told you. But Margaret Brooks was a private hospice nurse four years ago. She was the nurse assigned to Elena during her final weeks."
My blood ran cold.
My mother had never mentioned working for the DeLuca family. Never. When I got the job here, she had just smiled and told me to work hard and keep my head down.
"Why would she keep that a secret?" I asked.
"Because of the Thursday Lady," Gabriel said grimly. "The woman in the photograph Sophie showed me. Her name is Beatrice Vance. She’s a liquidator for high-end estates."
He paced across the thick carpet, running a hand through his dark hair. "Elena's trust was meant to transfer directly to Sophie when she turned eighteen. But there was a loophole. If Sophie was deemed medically and psychologically unfit to manage her affairs, the trust could be dissolved and absorbed by her legal guardian."
I felt physically sick.
"Isabella," I whispered. "She was going to send Sophie to that awful facility, declare her unfit, and take the money."
What is Daddy saying? Sophie signed to me, her big brown eyes filled with worry.
Daddy is protecting you, I signed back, forcing a reassuring smile.
Gabriel watched my hands, his expression softening for a fraction of a second before hardening again. "Isabella's family owns the nursing home where your mother works. They were blackmailing her, Hannah."
"Blackmailing her with what?"
Gabriel reached into his pocket and pulled out one of the yellowed papers he had confiscated from Isabella’s purse. He handed it to me.
It was a medical log from the night Elena died. The signature at the bottom belonged to my mother.
And right above her signature was an authorization for a lethal dose of morphine.
"My mother didn't kill your wife!" I gasped, dropping the paper as if it burned me. "She heals people. She would never—"
"I know she didn't," Gabriel interrupted, stepping closer. "Elena died of natural causes. This log is a forgery. Beatrice Vance forged it. Isabella has been holding this over your mother's head for four years to ensure her silence about Elena's true final wishes."
I covered my mouth, tears pricking my eyes. My poor mother. Terrified, working for minimum wage at an assisted living facility owned by the very monsters threatening her.
"We are going to destroy them," Gabriel said, his voice a low, terrifying rumble. "But I need your help, Hannah."
Before I could answer, a heavy, rhythmic knock echoed from the locked bedroom door.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Sophie flinched, hiding behind my legs.
Gabriel moved silently to the door. He peered through the security peephole. When he turned back to me, his face was as pale as marble.
May you like
"It's Beatrice Vance," he mouthed.
And she was holding a pair of heavy metal shears.
