Chapter 6
RAPHAEL
The week progressed, and my attention did not improve.
Luckily, Chandler and Geoffrey had been working for me so long that my life ran like a well-oiled machine.
Still, I did have a hotel opening within a year that required my focus.
I took a sip of coffee while attempting to focus on my morning meeting.
“Columbus permits cleared this morning.” Chandler stood across from my desk, reviewing projections with practiced ease. “The atrium redesign is approved. Pittsburgh occupancy is up another two percent. Cincinnati stable. Toledo is in due diligence.”
I nodded.
“Timeline for Columbus completion?” There had been a few hang-ups with the new project. I was hoping we could get back on track.
“Four months if contractors behave.”
“They won’t,” I said, looking at the calendar one last time.
He smiled faintly. “They rarely do.”
I should have been fully engaged.
This was an expansion. There was a strategy to consider. Measured growth across Ohio and Pennsylvania. Controlled risk. Controlled reward.
Instead, I was watching the window, wondering when Belle would be here. It was entirely unacceptable. Movement at the gates caught my attention. I think an actual smile twitched at the sight of a purple van rolling down the drive.
It parked in the same place it had every day this week.
Engine cut.
The driver’s door opened.
She stepped out.
I recognized the rhythm of it now. The way she tugged the handle twice to ensure the latch caught. The brief pause to adjust her bag.
She didn’t rush.
She didn’t hesitate.
She simply entered space as though it belonged to her.
Chandler followed my gaze. “Is she here for the basement project?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“You could hire three people to finish it faster.”
“That is unnecessary.”
He said nothing more.
The side entrance opened. She disappeared inside. I returned my attention to the report.
“Akron occupancy,” I prompted.
Chandler resumed speaking. I absorbed none of it. For days, she had been in this house, organizing, cataloging, and working without complaint. And ceaselessly distracting me.
She did her job and nothing more. She was a good worker who didn’t need much guidance. I should hardly even have known she was here. And yet, when she was in the building, the air felt different. It was as if it became more inhabited.
“I need you in Columbus this afternoon,” Chandler said after returning from a short call, not even bothering to soften it.
“The contractor wants final confirmation on the atrium steel.”
“Schedule departure in twenty minutes,” I said to Geoffrey.
He nodded once from the doorway. “A car will be ready, sir.”
When the time came, I gathered the Columbus file, shutting my laptop without rereading the last report. The basement door remained closed at the end of the corridor. She was still working.
We moved toward the side entrance, and as I stepped outside, my gaze shifted automatically toward the corner of the lot.
Her van sat there. I found myself slowly drifting over to it.
Sunlight hit it differently today. The purple paint showed faint wear along the edges.
It was old, but well-maintained. I should have kept walking. Instead, I slowed.
Chandler noticed. “Problem?” he asked.
“No.”
I moved closer and saw the side window curtain had been left partially open.
I couldn’t explain what I saw. I had expected the sight of a cleaning van.
I had not expected a bed with folded blankets stacked carefully and a pillow tucked against the wall.
There were even fairy lights strung along the ceiling, complete with a small fan clipped to the frame.
It was intentional and organized. It looked lived in.
This was not a service vehicle. This was not a company-issued transport.
This was . . . a residence. I had to be mistaken.
Chandler stopped beside me, following my line of sight.
He said nothing. Neither did I.
My jaw tightened as I made the list in my head. She arrived early. She stayed late. She accepted Sunday hours immediately. Double the rate. The calculations rearranged themselves without permission. I disliked how quickly the conclusion formed.
“She does not live in that,” I said.
Chandler didn’t answer.
The silence was confirmation enough.
The driver got out of the car that was waiting for us on the other side of the driveway. I made my way over and got in without another word.
The drive toward Columbus began in silence, yet the image remained. The bed, the fairy lights, the small, deliberate order in a confined space, all of it set a boulder in my stomach.
By the time I returned from Columbus, the estate felt altered. Nothing had changed. And yet, I walked directly to my study and closed the door. The file from the contractor sat open on my desk. I did not look at it.
Instead, I looked at nothing. The van was still replaying in my head. I had to be missing something, yet it was all adding up. It was starting to make sense, but I needed more. I did not like incomplete information.
I had to be missing something. I just needed to know what, because the picture forming in my mind could not be the truth.
I picked up the phone and looked up the number for Merry Band of Maids cleaning service.
It rang twice.
“Mr. Renault,” Tripp answered, voice slick with recognition. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I require the employment file for Belle Blythe.”
A beat.
“Of course,” Tripp said quickly. “Is there a problem? I can send another girl. She's had complaints in the past, so I’m not surprised. She’s a mess, I thought she might not be the best fit.
She has an attitude that one, I keep telling her it will get her nowhere. Let me see who else I have available.”
Another girl. I didn’t care for that. I also didn’t care for what he was insinuating.
“No.” The word left sharp. Silence on the other end. “She’s performed adequately,” I continued evenly. “I prefer the continuity.”
“Absolutely,” Tripp said, too eager. “I just meant, if there were any concerns—”
“There are none.”
Another pause.
“And yet you want her file?”
“I do.”
I have been a business acquaintance with Tripp’s father, Alistair Whittaker, for years. So while I knew my request may not be on the up and up, the Whittakers generally didn’t care about such things. Tripp would do whatever I asked of him if he thought it would put him in my good graces.
“I’ll have her file sent over,” he said. “Right away.”
“Thank you,” I said as satisfaction curled inside me.
I ended the call before he could add anything further. The request was unreasonable. I did know that. But, she was in my home accessing personal property. Due diligence was appropriate. That is what I told myself anyway.
The email arrived within minutes with a PDF attached.
I opened it.
Name: Isabelle Blythe. Everything was there from her date of birth to her past employers to the houses she’d cleaned. And she had cleared a background check.
I scrolled.
Emergency contact was listed as a woman named Melanie Keyes. I slid that little piece of information into the back of my mind.
Her address is what stopped me. It wasn’t a street address. It was a P.O. Box.
I stared at it longer than necessary.
P.O. Boxes weren’t uncommon. And yet, the image of the van overlaid the blank space where an address should have been.
I leaned back in my chair.
This was none of my concern. Her living arrangements were irrelevant to her job performance.
I closed the file. I needed to be done with this.
My gaze drifted toward the window, toward the corner of the drive where her van had sat earlier.
Maybe there was a way to give her more money even after the basement project was done. I would figure it out, but I would maintain distance. That was the solution. I set the file aside. Even if it did not quiet anything.