By sunrise, I was sitting at a small oak desk in the corner of Audrey’s playroom, sketching cartoon animals on a notepad when the door crept open an inch.
Audrey peered inside.
She wore a soft gray cashmere sweater, her dark hair framing a face that was far too serious for an eight-year-old. Her eyes locked onto mine, hesitating for a moment before she slowly pushed the door open and walked in, clutching her stuffed rabbit.
She climbed into the chair beside mine, picked up a blue crayon, and began drawing a picture of a house with a huge fire next to it.
I set down my pencil and raised my hands, signing slowly: Are you okay today, Audrey?
Her small fingers moved with practiced grace in response: My head hurts. Too many loud voices last night.
I understand, I signed back. Do you want me to read a story, or would you rather draw?
She paused, looking at me with those haunted, ancient-seeming eyes. Why did you stay? Bad men live here. My daddy is scary.
My heart ached for her. I reached out slowly, giving her plenty of time to pull away if she wanted, and gently touched the back of her hand. Your daddy loves you more than anything in the world, Audrey. He was angry at the bad men, not at you.
He never smiles anymore, she signed, a tear slipping down her cheek. Since the fire. Since Mommy went away.
"I know, sweetheart," I whispered aloud, forgetting for a second that she couldn't hear my voice.
Suddenly, the playroom door swung wide open.
Dominic stood in the doorway. He had evidently been watching us through the glass panel for the past five minutes. His expression was unreadable, but the tension in his broad shoulders had eased just a fraction.
Audrey didn't flinch when her father walked in. Instead, she slid off her chair, walked over to him, and wrapped her arms around his waist.
Dominic froze in genuine surprise. Slowly, awkwardly, like a man unaccustomed to gentleness, he wrapped his massive arms around his daughter and lifted her up.
He looked over Audrey’s shoulder at me.
"She hasn't done that in two years," Dominic said, his voice unusually raw. "Normally, if I touch her unannounced, she retreats into her room for hours."
"She’s looking for safety, Mr. Vale," I said, standing up and dusting off my slacks. "Anyone would, after what she’s been through."
Dominic set Audrey down gently, murmuring something in Italian to her before pointing toward her bedroom. The little girl nodded and scurried off, leaving just the two of us in the playroom.
Dominic closed the door behind her.
"You have a calming effect on her," he observed, walking toward me with that predatory, controlled grace. "I want to know how you learned sign language, Claire. It’s not something ordinary waitresses from Indiana pick up on a whim."
My pulse spiked, but I forced my expression to remain smooth. "My younger sister was born deaf, Mr. Vale. She passed away when I was twelve. Teaching her was the only way we could talk."
It was a lie I had rehearsed a hundred times in my head—a safety net constructed from the ashes of my fabricated past.
Dominic stared at me, his gaze boring into my soul. He stepped close enough that I could smell the faint trace of cedar, espresso, and gun oil on his collar.
"You are full of surprises, Claire Mercer," he murmured.
My breath caught in my throat.
Mercer.
He had called me Claire Mercer.
Dominic let out a low, humorless chuckle at the look of absolute terror that must have flashed across my face.
"Did you really think I wouldn't run a deeper facial recognition scan overnight?" Dominic whispered, his voice dropping an octave, vibrating with lethal intensity. "Arthur Mercer’s daughter. Hiding in my restaurant, getting close to my daughter. What is the game, Claire? Are you here to finish what your father started?"