THE MAID’S REVENGE: A MOTHER’S FIGHT FOR JUSTICE

I stared at the boarding pass until the letters blurred. David Miller.

"It's a trick," I whispered, my hands trembling. "It has to be. He's dead."

Gabriel stepped into the kitchen, his dark eyes scanning the room before falling on the ticket in my hands. I handed it to him. He didn't say a word, but a muscle feathered in his jaw as he read the name.

"Elias," Gabriel snapped. "Lock down the estate. No one leaves. No one enters. Check the perimeter cameras. Find out who bumped into this child."

Elias nodded sharply and hurried out the back door.

I pulled Molly into my arms, hugging her tightly. She was so quiet, so perfectly still. She remembered her father. She had been four when he died. She used to sit by the window for months, waiting for his truck to pull into the driveway.

"Mom," Molly asked softly against my apron. "Is daddy coming back?"

My heart shattered. I looked at Gabriel, begging him silently for an answer I didn't have.

"Your father loved you very much, Molly," Gabriel said, his voice surprisingly gentle. He crouched down so he was at eye level with her. "Right now, we are trying to figure out a puzzle. And you gave us a very important clue."

He looked up at me. "Beth, I need to know exactly what David left behind. A box, a letter, anything."

"I told you, there was nothing," I said frantically. "The police gave me his wallet and a box of his clothes. That was it."

Gabriel stood up. "Think harder. The rosary was on his person when he died. The three million is still missing. And now, someone is trying to lure you to an airport using his name. They want you out of this house tonight."

Before I could answer, Elias burst back into the kitchen. He was holding a small, crumpled piece of paper.

"Boss," Elias said, his breath coming in short bursts. "The cameras were cut. The server room has been wiped. But I found this pinned to the security desk downstairs."

He handed the paper to Gabriel.

Gabriel unfolded it. I leaned over his arm to look.

It was a child's drawing, done in crayon. It showed a little girl with blonde hair holding hands with a man in a blue shirt. But the drawing had been violently torn in half, right down the middle, separating the father from the daughter.

Written on the back in thick black marker were three words: Check the locker.

"My drawing," Molly gasped, pointing at the paper. "I drew that for daddy for Father's Day. It was in his wallet when he died. I keep it in my locker downstairs."

I felt the blood drain from my face. My staff locker. It was in the basement, where I kept my street clothes and purse during my shift.

"Stay here with Elias," Gabriel ordered me.

"No," I said fiercely, grabbing Molly’s hand. "I’m not letting her out of my sight. We go together."

Gabriel didn't argue. He drew a sleek black handgun from his shoulder holster and held it at his side. "Stay behind me."

We moved silently down the narrow, dimly lit stairs to the staff basement. The air felt heavy and cold. The basement was a labyrinth of laundry machines, storage crates, and a row of gray metal lockers.

Locker number 12. My locker.

The small padlock had been completely shattered, hanging by a thread of bent metal.

Gabriel pushed the metal door open with the barrel of his gun.

My purse had been dumped out. My wallet was open, my loose change scattered across the bottom shelf. But sitting perfectly in the center of the mess was a large, heavy manila envelope.

Gabriel reached in and pulled it out. It was sealed with red wax. He broke the seal and tipped the contents onto the folding table nearby.

Dozens of photographs spilled out.

I gasped.

They were surveillance photos. Photos of me walking Molly to school. Photos of me buying groceries. Photos of me sitting at the bus stop. Someone had been watching us for months.

But it was the last photograph that made my knees buckle.

It wasn't a picture of me. It was a picture of Celeste, taken years ago, sitting in a dimly lit diner. And sitting across the booth from her, handing her a thick manila envelope, was my husband, David.

"Answer one question, open two," Gabriel murmured, staring at the photo.

"He knew her," I whispered, the betrayal stinging my eyes. "David knew Celeste."

"He didn't just know her," Gabriel said, his voice tight with realization. "Celeste was the one who helped him steal the money. She didn't want to marry me for power. She’s been draining my family’s accounts for years, and David was her accountant."

Suddenly, the heavy metal door at the top of the basement stairs slammed shut.

The lock clicked loudly, echoing in the confined space.

Then, the lights went out, plunging us into absolute darkness.