THE BILLIONAIRE'S DEAD WIFE

CHAPTER 8: THE ATTIC

"That is your granddaughter."

I said it and instantly wanted to pull the words back into my mouth. But it was too late. In Blackwood Estate, words didn't disappear. They hung in cold air like fog.

Evelyn Blackwood stared at the ceiling, where the baby cry came from. Her cane lay on marble where she dropped it — first time Mrs. Finch had ever seen her drop cane, she later told me.

"Evelyn," Mrs. Finch said quietly, using first name for first time, "don't —"

"Where?" Evelyn's voice was not shark voice anymore. It was thin. "Where is baby?"

Damian stepped between his mother and stairs, like he could block sound with his gray suit.

"Mother, there is no baby. Zara is confused. Grief —"

"My granddaughter does not sound like grief, Damian." She looked at me, green eyes wet now, not cold. "You said granddaughter. Whose?"

I couldn't look at Damian. If I looked at Damian, I would lie for him. So I looked at Mrs. Finch, who held my future in her old hands.

"Mrs. Finch knows," I said.

Evelyn turned to Mrs. Finch. Slowly. Like a ship turning.

"Miriam," she said — Mrs. Finch's first name was Miriam — "what did you hide in my house?"

Miriam Finch — Mrs. Finch — had worked for Blackwoods for 22 years. She had cooked for Evelyn when Evelyn was young wife, for Damian when he was boy who fell from horse, for Elara when she was pregnant and bleeding in attic. She had kept every secret.

Now she broke.

"Attic," she whispered. "Behind trunks. Small room."

Damian swore. "Mrs. Finch —"

But Evelyn was already moving, faster than a 70-year-old woman with cane should move, up marble stairs, hand on railing, no cane. Damian followed. I followed. Mrs. Finch followed, muttering prayer.

The attic door was behind north wing, behind black door that was always locked. Today it was unlocked, just pushed shut. Someone had gone up recently.

We went up narrow wooden stairs that creaked. Dust. Cold. Smell of old clothes and cedar.

Behind three big trunks with B for Blackwood painted in gold, there was a door I had never seen. Small, white, with new lock. Cheap lock.

Evelyn pushed trunks herself. Strong. Damian helped, shocked that his mother could push.

Behind door — light.

Warm yellow light from a camping lantern. And inside, on old mattress on floor, with white cotton blankets, was Lena.

Not Elara. Lena. Hoodie off now. Hair same as mine, but thinner, tired. Scar over left eyebrow, not right. Mirror of me. She held Maya against chest, trying to shush her, but Maya cried louder when she saw so many people.

Lena looked up and saw us and said one word: "Mother?"

She wasn't talking to Mrs. Finch. She was talking to Evelyn.

Evelyn Blackwood put hand over mouth.

"Elara."

Lena shook her head fast, tears starting. "Not Elara anymore. Lena. Lena Marsh. You paid me to be Lena."

Damian made sound like he was hit. "Elara?"

He said Elara's name like he was seeing ghost that was supposed to be burned on Route 7 with wedding ring.

Lena stood, holding baby. Baby was wrapped in same white cotton as my nightgown.

"You told me to get rid of her," Lena said to Damian, voice shaking but loud in small attic room. "You said — you said 'fix it in Mexico.' You gave me $50,000 and clinic address. You said baby would ruin merger, ruin company, ruin your life."

"I — I thought you did!" Damian shouted. "You sent photo! Clinic receipt! You said —"

"I lied! Evelyn helped me lie!" Lena turned to Evelyn. "You paid clinic to give fake receipt. You paid me $2,000,000 to disappear before baby showed. You said 'take money, go, never come back, save my son from mistake.' Account 7749-9921-0047-1183. You remember?"

Evelyn didn't answer. She stared at baby.

Maya had stopped crying. She stared at Evelyn with green eyes. Same eyes.

"Give her to me," Evelyn whispered.

Lena held tighter. "No. You will take her like you take everything."

"Give me my granddaughter, Elara."

"Her name is Maya! Not Elara Junior! Not Blackwood heir! Maya Marsh!"

"Maya Blackwood," Evelyn said. "If Damian is father, she is Blackwood. And Blackwoods don't live in attics."

Damian stepped forward, hands out, like he approached wild animal.

"Elara — Lena — is she mine? Really mine?"

Lena laughed, terrible laugh like at bus station. "You ask now? After you tried to kill me with rope on April 29th? After you came up with rope because I said I would keep baby and tell investors you forced me to abort?"

Damian went white. "I didn't — I didn't bring rope to kill you. I brought rope to — to fix attic window! You were screaming —"

"Liar!" Lena screamed, and Maya started crying again from loud voice. "You wrote in diary — 'If you keep it, you will disappear like others who threaten merger' — I have photo!"

"I never wrote that!"

"You did!"

They shouted, and in small room with lantern, 11-month-old baby cried, and I stood in doorway in blue dress with pearls and scar on wrong side, holding nothing.

Mrs. Finch touched my arm. "Zara," she whispered, "go get locker 7."

I blinked. "What?"

"Account number. Photo. She needs $2,000,000 to leave. You hid it. Go get it before Evelyn takes it. If Evelyn gets baby and money, Lena gets nothing."

Lena needed $2,000,000. Evelyn paid $2,000,000 to make her disappear. Same money. Locker 7 at Havenport Bus Station behind crab shell.

"I can't leave," I whispered. "Your mother —"

"I am her mother," Mrs. Finch said quietly. "Lena is my daughter. Elara was name Evelyn gave her when she married Damian. Real name is Lena Finch. My daughter. I gave her to Evelyn to be maid's daughter who marries billionaire, but she became wife. And now granddaughter."

Mrs. Finch is Lena's mother. Lena is Elara. Elara is Lena Finch. All circle.

Evelyn heard. She turned.

"Miriam Finch. You told me Lena was orphan from Grayport. No family."

"I lied," Mrs. Finch said, chin up. "Like you lied about clinic. Like you lied about being dying. You said 11 months to live for three years. You not dying. You controlling."

Evelyn looked old for first time.

"I am dying," she said quietly. "Heart. Real. But doctor said 3 years, not 11 months. I said 11 months to make Damian marry and give me heir before I die. He married your daughter. She got pregnant. Then he said abort. I couldn't — I couldn't let Blackwood heir aborted in Mexico. So I paid Lena to disappear and keep baby and fake death. So baby could live. And I could see granddaughter before I die."

Silence in attic. Only Maya crying, small hiccups now.

Damian sat on trunk, head in hands. "You all lied to me. Everyone lied to me. My mother, my wife, my housekeeper. All women in this house lied to me."

Lena said, soft now: "You lied first, Damian. You said you loved me. You loved merger more."

I stepped into room.

Evelyn looked at me, at my scar on wrong side, at blue dress.

"Who are you?" she asked, not cruel, just tired.

"Zara Vale. Thomas Vale's daughter. Truck 7. Route 9."

Evelyn closed eyes. "Grayport Logistics. Settlement $15,000. Account 4421. I remember. Finance man — Mr. Cole — pocketed it. I fired him last month."

"You knew?" I said.

"I know everything that happens in my company. I am dying, not blind."

She looked at baby again.

"Miriam, give me baby," she said to Mrs. Finch, gentle.

Mrs. Finch took Maya from Lena and gave to Evelyn.

Evelyn held baby like she had held babies before, expert. She touched Maya's chest, birthmark crescent moon.

"Blackwood mark," she whispered. "My husband had same. Damian had same when born, faded."

She looked at me, at Lena, at Damian on trunk.

"Here is the deal," she said, and shark voice came back, but softer. "Lena — you want $2,000,000 to leave country with Maya and your mother. I will give you $2,000,000, but you sign paper that you never come back, never tell press baby is Blackwood. You live free."

Lena nodded, tears falling.

"Damian — you want merger signature. I will sign tomorrow, but you will pay Zara Vale $15,000 settlement plus $90,000 you promised, plus extra $50,000 for lying to her. And you will fix trucks so no more fathers die."

Damian nodded, not looking up.

"And you —" She looked at me, Zara in blue dress. "You. You have the wrong scar, but you have the right heart. You held the baby in the pantry. You hid the photo. You didn't run. You want to be a writer?"

I nodded, shocked she knew.

"Then I will pay you $5,000 for story rights. The story of billionaire's dead wife who lives. You write it. But change the names. And you leave this house today. Because this house has too many ghosts already."

She held Maya, who had fallen asleep in her arms, humming C, E, G without knowing.

Outside attic small window, fog cleared for first time in days, and we could see the ocean.