Mrs. Bertram
Caden
I took the phone from Aria’s hand before she could respond.
Mrs. Bertram looked back at me through the screen with the pleasant, patient expression of a woman who had been in service her entire life and had learned to perform calm so thoroughly it had become her default setting. I’d known her for eleven years. She’d worked Romano’s estate since before I could remember. She’d brought tea when I visited, maintained the house with quiet efficiency, been so thoroughly part of the furniture that I’d stopped seeing her as a person with her own agenda a long time ago.
That was the point, I realized now.
That had always been the point.
“Mrs. Bertram,” I said.
“Mr. Voss.” Still pleasant. Still unhurried. “I appreciate you taking the call personally.”
“Where is Marguerite.
