Chapter 6 - The House in Gladwyne
The house on Merion Road looked like a bank that had decided to become a home. It was all white stucco, black iron window frames, and landscaping that looked like it had been trimmed with a razor blade.
The silver BMW in the circular driveway was still warm; the ticking of its cooling exhaust pipe was the only sound in the cul-de-sac besides the wind rustling through the boxwood hedges.
Vincent didn’t use the doorbell. Marco didn't either. The side gate by the garage was left unlatched—an oversight by someone who had never lived anywhere where people locked their doors against the winter.
Through the floor-to-ceiling glass of the back sunroom, the scene was brightly lit by recessed halogen fixtures.
A woman with long, pale blonde hair was standing by the marble kitchen island, holding a glass of sparkling water. Across from her, Grant Vance—thirty-two, wearing a cashmere sweater that cost more than Grace’s monthly rent—was leaning against the refrigerator with a phone pressed to his ear.
“I told you, mother, she’s not our problem anymore,” Grant was saying, his voice carrying clearly through the double-paned glass. “The lawyers handled the separation agreement in November. She got her settlement—the three thousand we agreed on to keep her from making a scene at the office.”
“She was seen at Hawthorne today,” an older woman’s voice crackled from the speakerphone on the counter. Patricia Cole’s sister—Eleanor Vance, the matriarch who sat on three different hospital boards in the county. “With Vincent Caruso.”
Grant’s hand paused on the refrigerator handle. The color drained out of his face so fast he looked like he’d been hit in the chest with a wet sandbag.
“Caruso?” Grant’s voice cracked. “What does Caruso have to do with her?”
“He brought her into Mercer’s private suite,” Eleanor’s voice snapped through the speaker. “Personally. The director called me ten minutes ago from his car. He said Caruso looked at the intake nurse like he was going to throw her off the roof.”
Grant set the phone down on the marble so hard the glass cracked across the screen.
“That’s impossible,” Grant muttered, walking toward the sliding door. “She doesn’t know anyone. She was just... she was just a temp from the cleaning service. She doesn't even have a car.”
The sliding glass door didn't have time to lock because Vincent Caruso’s hand was already on the frame, pulling it back before Grant could reach the latch.
The cold air rushed into the sunroom, smelling of snow and river mud.
Grant stopped dead three feet from the threshold. His eyes moved from Vincent’s face down to Marco Vitali, who was standing in the shadow of the hydrangea bushes with his hands folded in front of his coat.
“Mr. Caruso,” Grant whispered, his throat working convulsively. “I... I think you’ve made a mistake. This is a private residence.”
Vincent stepped inside. He didn’t take off his coat. He brought the winter in with him—the smell of wet wool and old iron.
“You have a child coming, Grant,” Vincent said, his voice terrifyingly quiet.
Grant’s hand twitched toward the counter where his car keys lay. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Her name is Grace Miller,” Vincent said, taking another step forward until the space between them was so small Grant could see the tiny silver threads in Vincent’s silk tie. “She cleans offices from midnight until dawn so she can afford to buy milk that isn't watered down. And you gave her three thousand dollars to disappear.”
The blonde woman—Vanessa—stepped out from the pantry with a napkin in her hand, her eyes wide with a mixture of confusion and sudden, sharp terror. “Grant? Who is this?”
“Shut up, Vanessa,” Grant snarled, his voice rising in panic. “Mr. Caruso, this is a civil matter. My lawyers have all the paperwork—she signed off on the relinquishment of—of any future claims—”
Vincent didn’t let him finish the sentence. His hand shot out with the speed of a striking snake, catching Grant by the cashmere collar and slamming him back against the stainless-steel refrigerator with a thud that rattled the wine glasses on the top shelf.
“Paperwork,” Vincent whispered into Grant’s ear. “You think a piece of paper from a divorce court changes whose blood is running in that little girl’s veins?”
“What?” Grant choked out, his heels lifting off the tile floor as Vincent’s grip tightened. “What are you talking about?”
Vincent let him go. Grant slid down two inches before catching himself against the counter, gasping for air.
“You’re going to call your mother,” Vincent said, wiping his fingers with a white linen handkerchief he pulled from his breast pocket. “And you’re going to tell her that Grace Miller’s medical bills are being paid by the Caruso estate, starting today. And if I hear that another nurse, another doctor, or another member of your family looks at her sideways in this city again...”
May you like
Vincent stopped. He didn’t need to finish the threat.
The silence in the kitchen was absolute, broken only by the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of snow hitting the glass.
