THE BILLIONAIRE’S BURIED WIFE AND THE WAITRESS WHO KNEW TOO MUCH

“No, no, no,” I whispered, grabbing the child’s drawing.

I ran back into the main dining room, waving the paper. “He’s gone! Leo is gone!”

Elizabeth let out a wail of pure agony and collapsed against Richard. He caught her, his own face pale with terror.

“Who is Leo?” Richard demanded, looking at me.

“He’s our busboy,” I said, my voice shaking. “He’s nineteen. He started three weeks ago. He’s... he’s your son, Mr. Sterling. He has your eyes.”

Richard looked at Vanessa, who was now handcuffed by the security guard, kneeling on the floor. She was smiling. A sick, satisfied smile.

“You took him,” Richard said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, lethal register. “While we were standing out here, someone took him out the back.”

“I always have a contingency plan, darling,” Vanessa sneered. “You think I didn’t know the pastry chef was Elizabeth? I hired her on purpose. I wanted her close. I wanted her to watch you love me. To watch you give me her life. And when Leo applied for the busboy job... well, it was just too perfect. A mother and son, cleaning my dirty plates.”

Elizabeth lunged at Vanessa, but Richard pulled her back.

“Where is he, Margaret?” Richard asked quietly.

“Transfer the offshore accounts to my name,” Vanessa countered. “All of them. And sign the real estate holdings over to my LLC. Do it tonight, and I’ll tell you which trunk of which car your bastard son is locked inside.”

The room went dead silent. A trunk. She had locked him in a trunk.

“He’ll suffocate,” Elizabeth cried.

Vanessa shrugged. “He has maybe two hours. Better find a notary, Richard.”

I looked down at the drawing in my hand. The red lipstick.

Wait.

I looked at Vanessa’s face. She wasn’t wearing red lipstick. She was wearing a pale pink gloss.

I looked at the women in the room. The wealthy guests.

“Mr. Sterling,” I said, keeping my voice low. “Margaret didn't go into the kitchen. She’s been out here the whole time.”

Richard frowned, catching my drift. “She has an accomplice.”

“Exactly,” I whispered. I held up the drawing. “Someone wearing red lipstick went into the breakroom, took Leo, and left this.”

I turned to Dr. Whitmore, who was sweating profusely near the exit.

“Dr. Whitmore,” I said sharply. “When Margaret came to the clinic thirty years ago to steal Elizabeth’s face... who paid the bill?”

The doctor flinched.

“Who paid, Harold?” Richard barked.

“Her... her mother,” Dr. Whitmore stammered.

“Margaret’s mother died in 1999,” Elizabeth said, her brow furrowing in confusion.

I looked at the crayon drawing again. The little boy, the father, the mother. But in the corner of the drawing, drawn in heavy black crayon, was a tall, ominous figure holding a key.

“Vanessa didn't have a mother pay for it,” I realized, my blood running cold. “Dr. Whitmore... you said Caroline died in the car crash in 2004.”

“Yes,” the doctor said.

“Are you sure?” I asked, stepping toward him. “Are you absolutely sure it was Caroline’s body in that car?”

Dr. Whitmore blinked. “Margaret provided the dental records.”

“Margaret lied,” I said.

I turned to Elizabeth. “Elizabeth... when you were locked in that basement for two years... who brought you your food? Who held the key?”

Elizabeth’s eyes widened in sheer terror. “It wasn't Margaret. Margaret was busy living my life with Richard. The person who kept me locked up... the person who guarded me...”

“Was Caroline,” I finished.

Vanessa’s arrogant smile vanished instantly.

“Caroline is alive,” I said to the room. “She faked her death in the crash to escape a massive embezzlement charge in 2004. Margaret helped her. That’s whose body is in the grave—a stranger.”

I turned to the kitchen doors.

“And Caroline is the one who just took Leo.”

Suddenly, my cell phone buzzed in my apron pocket.

I pulled it out. It was a text message from an unknown number.

Tell the billionaire if he wants his son to breathe again, he needs to come to the place where it all started. Alone.

Attached to the text was a photo of a heavy, iron padlock.

Elizabeth gasped when she saw the screen.

“I know that lock,” she whispered, trembling uncontrollably. “That’s the basement door of Margaret’s childhood home. The house that burned down thirty years ago.”

Richard grabbed his coat. “Let’s go.”

“I’m coming with you,” I said, ripping off my stained apron.

“No, Claire, it’s too dangerous—”

“I know how to pick a lock,” I said, looking him dead in the eye. “You grew up with billions. I grew up in foster care. You’re going to need me.”