Chapter 9: Claire Comes Home
Claire Cross let herself in through the kitchen door, the way she always had, duffel over one shoulder, airport coffee in hand. She expected Marisol's voice, the clatter of pans, the smell of something browning. She got silence, and the ticking of the hall clock. Marisol's recipe cards were gone from the drawer beside the stove. Rosa was nowhere to be seen.
"Hello?" she called, dropping her bag on the kitchen table. "Anybody alive in here?"
No answer. The counters were spotless, which was wrong in itself. Marisol's kitchen never looked spotless at three in the afternoon. There were always dishes in the rack, a cutting board out, something half prepped. Claire ran one finger along the edge of the stove and found it cold.
She took the stairs two at a time to her father's study. The door was ajar. His desk was tidy, the blotter bare, no mail stacked beside the lamp. On the corner sat a note in Priya's handwriting, propped against the telephone: "Gone fishing through Sunday. Will call. Love you."
Claire picked it up and frowned. Her father had not gone fishing in two years. He said the lake brought back her mother too much. A fishing trip now, unannounced, in October, when the water was turning cold? She pocketed the note.
From the study window she could see the lake, gray and flat under a white sky, and the boathouse at the far end of the dock. Nobody had come out to greet her. That was wrong too. Royce usually materialized within a minute of anyone crossing the gate line.
She went back downstairs and out through the side door, heading for the dock. The air smelled of wet leaves and cold water. Halfway down the slope she saw a figure moving near the boathouse, a man in a shabby coat, slipping inside like he didn't want to be seen.
Claire stopped. "Hey!" she called. The man didn't turn. The boathouse door shut behind him.
She stood there a moment, hands in her jacket pockets, and then she heard boots on gravel behind her.
"Well, well," said a warm, pleased voice. "The princess returns."
Claire turned. A man she didn't know was walking toward her from the direction of the garage, smiling like they were old friends. He was in his late thirties, good hair, a blazer that cost more than her textbooks. "I'm sorry," she said. "Do I know you?"
"Nolan Pierce, estate manager," he said, extending a hand she did not take. "Your father's right hand these days. And you must be Claire. I've heard wonderful things."
"Have you," Claire said.
"All good, I promise, kiddo." He grinned. "What brings you home on a Friday? Shouldn't you be off being a college senior somewhere fun?"
The word kiddo landed wrong, like a hand on her shoulder she hadn't invited. "I live here, technically," she said. "Or I did. When did Dad get an estate manager?"
"About six weeks ago. Your father decided the place needed fresh energy." Nolan gestured broadly at the grounds, as if he had built them himself. "We've got big plans, Claire. Modernizing the staff structure, streamlining operations. I told your father, a place like this can't run on sentiment. You have to run it like a business."
"Did you." Claire looked at him steadily. "And where is my father?"
"On a fishing trip," Nolan said smoothly. " Spur of the moment thing. You know how he is."
"I do, actually." She let that sit. "Which is why it's strange that he left no car, no boat out, and no word to me. He usually texts."
Nolan's smile didn't move, but something behind it recalculated. "He asked me to hold the fort. You picked a lively weekend to come home, kiddo. The staff's running light."
"Running light." Claire glanced toward the kitchen wing. "Where's Marisol?"
A pause. Just a beat too long. "Marisol Vega was let go yesterday," Nolan said. "Personnel matter. Nothing for you to worry about."
"Let go." Marisol had cooked in that kitchen for fourteen years. "What could she possibly have done?"
"Your father trusted my judgment," Nolan said, and his tone turned just a fraction cooler. "These decisions aren't always pretty, kiddo, but estates this size need discipline. You'll understand when you run something yourself."
Claire smiled at him, sweet as sugar. "Oh, I'm sure I'll understand all sorts of things someday. Right now I'd like to walk down to the boathouse. Alone."
Nolan's smile came back, a little thinner. "Mind the dock. It's slick."
She walked away, his eyes on her back the whole way down the slope. She slowed as she reached the boathouse door. The man in the shabby coat. A drifter, probably, though Royce usually ran those off within the hour.
She pushed the door open. The boathouse was dim and smelled of rope and gasoline. No man. She scanned the shadows twice. He had slipped out the far side, or he was very good at hiding.
She was about to leave when she saw the shoes. Her father's worn boat shoes, the canvas frayed at the toes, the leather laces he refused to replace, sitting neatly by the boathouse door. Her father's shoes. In the boathouse. While he was supposedly on a fishing trip.
Claire's breath caught. She stepped inside and looked at the workbench. Beside a coil of line sat his old field watch. The canvas strap was cracked. He had worn it every day since her mother died, winding it each morning like a prayer.
She picked it up. The second hand was still moving. Wound this morning. Wound by hands that were supposed to be miles away on a fishing boat.
Outside, the water slapped the pilings. Somewhere behind the boathouse, a floorboard creaked.
Claire slipped the watch into her pocket. She said nothing. She walked back out into the gray afternoon with her eyes narrowed and her jaw set, and she did not look back once.