Chapter 4 – THE FACE IN THE PHOTOGRAPH

I shoved the photograph deep into the pocket of my own jeans just as the door handle turned.

Vanessa stood in the doorway. She wasn’t wearing her silk dress anymore. She wore a dark turtleneck, her eyes stripped of the glamorous charm she used for Luca.

“You’re out of your depth, Grace,” she said, stepping into my tiny room. “You think because Luca gave you a new title, you’re safe? You’re a maid who served soup. Tomorrow, I will plant stolen jewelry in your bag, call the police, and ruin your life.”

“You didn’t come down here to threaten me,” I said, forcing my voice to stay steady. “You came looking for your coat.”

Her eyes darted to the cashmere coat on the bed.

“I want it back.”

“Take it,” I said, stepping aside.

She snatched it up, frantically digging her hands into the pockets. When she found them empty, she looked at me, pure venom in her gaze.

“Give me the picture.”

“What picture?” I lied, keeping my face blank.

“Don’t play games with me. The man in that photo is dangerous. If Luca sees it, we are all dead.”

She wasn’t just angry now. She was terrified.

“Is he the man who killed Luca’s sister?” I asked.

Vanessa let out a dark, bitter laugh. “Kill her? You stupid girl. That man is my brother. And he was trying to save her.”

My mind spun. If her brother was trying to save Luca’s sister, why was she so desperate to hide him?

Before I could ask, heavy footsteps echoed in the staff hallway.

Vanessa cursed under her breath and slipped out the secondary door toward the laundry room.

A moment later, a familiar face appeared in my doorway. It was Ben, the waiter from the dining room. He looked exhausted, still wearing his stained uniform.

“Ben? What are you doing here? You were sent home.”

“I know,” he whispered, checking over his shoulder. “But while I was cleaning up the back station… I found this shoved behind the ice machine. It has your name written on the back.”

He handed me a faded, water-damaged piece of cardboard.

It was a baggage claim ticket.

I turned it over. My mother’s handwriting was scrawled on the back: Grace, if they come for me, use this.

I hadn’t seen my mother’s handwriting since she died in a hit-and-run five years ago.

“Ben,” I whispered. “Where did you really find this?”

“I didn’t find it,” a cold voice said from the shadows behind him.

Luca stepped into the light. “I told him to give it to you.”

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