Dan asked.
“A total stranger shows up out of nowhere and stops a funeral. Suddenly, she’s living in your house. Doesn’t that seem a little too convenient to anyone else?”
Several men nodded. “Clara Bell saved my son’s life,” Victor said coldly. “Or maybe she poisoned him first,” Dan insisted.
“Think about it, Victor. She knew exactly what the poison was. She knew exactly when to show up.
And now she has access to everything. Your home, your family, your business.” “That’s ridiculous,” Frank said, but there was no conviction in his voice.
“She’s been on the streets for years. It’s the perfect cover,” Dan continued. “Who would suspect her?
She walks in, plays the hero, and infiltrates your inner circle. Now she’s watching everything we do.” Tony, another captain, gripped his glass.
“You think she’s a plant? Corporate espionage?” “I think we know nothing about this woman except what she told us. And what she told us is that she’s an expert in the exact poison used on your son.” Dan shrugged.
“I’m just saying we should look into her, Boss.” A wave of agreement went around the room. Victor stood up, and the murmuring stopped instantly.
“Here’s what we’re going to do. Mark,” he pointed to his head of security, “run a deep background check on Clara Bell. Everything. Verify her story, find out where she’s been, who she’s talked to, if anyone’s paid her recently.”
“On it, Mr. Roman.” “Tony, Dan, you two investigate the kitchen staff, the security detail, anyone who had access to Luke’s food or meds in the last month. I want bank records, phone logs, the works.”
“And me?” Frank asked quietly. Victor looked at his old friend, the man who had been by his side through twenty years of corporate warfare. “Find out who our enemies are talking to.
The Sterling Group, the others. Someone made a move. Someone thought killing my son would weaken me.
I want to know who.” Frank nodded slowly. “Consider it done.”
When the meeting broke up, the men left in small groups, talking in low, suspicious tones. Dan stayed by the door, talking to two younger guards. Victor caught fragments of the conversation.
“Don’t trust her. Too convenient. She’s probably working with someone on the inside.”
Frank remained seated until everyone else was gone. “You really think Clara is innocent?” he asked. Victor walked to the window overlooking the garden.
Below, he could see Clara walking with Luke. The boy was holding her hand, and his laughter drifted up through the glass. It was the first time he’d heard his son laugh since the ‘incident.’ “I think,” Victor said slowly, “that someone tried to kill my son, and Clara stopped it.
Whether she knew about the plot beforehand is what I’m going to find out. If she’s guilty,” Victor’s reflection in the glass showed no emotion, “I’ll handle it myself.” After Frank left, Victor pulled out his phone and dialed a private number.
The phone rang three times before a gravelly voice answered. “Detective Miller. This is Victor Roman.
I need a favor. Off the books.” Down in the garden, Clara felt eyes on her from every window.
She pulled Luke a little closer, instinctively sensing the danger. She had saved the boy’s life, but she was starting to wonder if she had signed her own death warrant in the process. Luke was refusing to eat.
For two days, the boy had rejected trays of his favorite foods—mac and cheese, sliders, chocolate shakes. The nurses tried to coax him; Mary pleaded with him. Victor’s voice went from stern to desperate.
Nothing worked until Clara walked into the room. “Hey, kiddo,” she said softly, pulling a chair up to his bed. “I heard you’re on strike.”
Luke’s dark eyes, so much like his father’s, met hers. “I’m not hungry,” he lied. Clara smiled.
“Your stomach has been growling for ten minutes. I can hear it from the hallway.” A tiny grin touched Luke’s lips.
“Maybe I’m a little hungry. Just a little.” Clara picked up a fork and twirled some pasta.
“This looks pretty good. It’d be a shame to waste it.” She made a move as if she were going to take a bite herself.
“That’s mine,” Luke protested. “Oh, so you want it now?” Clara asked, holding the fork just out of reach. “I thought you weren’t hungry.
Give me that.” Luke leaned forward, laughing. Really laughing.
And Clara gave him the fork. He took three bites before he realized she’d outsmarted him. Mary stood in the doorway, tears pricking her eyes.
She had spent hours trying to feed her son. This stranger had done it in thirty seconds. Victor watched from the hallway with an unreadable expression.
It was a pattern. Luke only took his medicine if Clara gave it to him. He only slept if she sat by his bed.
He only went for walks if she held his hand. The boy, who had been withdrawn and quiet even before the ‘incident,’ was now clinging to Clara like a lifeline. “Why her?” Mary asked Victor one night, her voice trembling.
“I’m his mother. Why won’t he let me help him?”
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