Chapter 4 - The Clean-Up Crew
By midnight, the estate was entirely silent. The donors, the caterers, and the flashing cameras were gone, replaced by the heavy, rhythmic hum of the security gates locking down.
I stood on the second-floor balcony, looking out over the dark expanse of the rose gardens where I had spent eleven days playing a gardener. My phone vibrated in my pocket. It was Marcus, my second-in-command in New York.
"The Atlantic City bookies got their money back," Marcus said without preamble. "Every cent Vanessa’s brother owed. We wired it straight from her personal accounts. She’s staring at a federal wire fraud charge in addition to child endangerment and assault. Bail has been set at five million—which she doesn't have, because I froze her liquid assets ten minutes ago."
"Good," I said, watching the wind rustle through the dark trees. "Make sure her family knows that if any of them attempt to contact my children, they'll find out why I retired from active enforcement."
"Consider it handled, Boss. What about the house?"
"I'm handling it."
I hung up and walked back inside. The hallway was empty except for a single figure sitting on a plush velvet bench outside the children's room. Grace. She had a cold compress pressed against her cheek, and a small cup of tea sat untouched on the side table.
"You should go home, Grace," I said as I approached. "You've done enough."
Grace looked up, her dark eyes sharp. "My shift doesn't end until morning, Mr. Whitaker. And considering the locks haven't been changed yet, I figured someone should stay within arm's reach."
A rare, dry chuckle escaped my throat. I sat down on the opposite end of the bench, resting my elbows on my knees.
"You didn't have to jump in front of that slap," I said quietly. "I was already moving."
"Were you?" Grace tilted her head, challenging me with a quiet dignity that very few people possessed. "You were waiting for witnesses. You told your attorney you needed a clean legal paper trail. But children don't care about paper trails, Mr. Whitaker. When a child sees a hand raised, every second you spend calculating is a second they spend believing no one is coming to save them."
The words hit me square in the chest. They were harsh, unvarnished, and entirely true. I looked away, staring down the long, dimly lit corridor.
"You're a very dangerous woman to speak to me like that," I said, though there was no heat in it.
"I'm a housekeeper who knows how to spot a broken home," she replied softly. She stood up, smoothing her uniform skirt. "The children are asleep. For the first time in six nights, they didn't lock their bedroom door from the inside."
I looked up at her, feeling a strange, unfamiliar weight lift from my shoulders—a weight I hadn't even realized I was carrying since their mother passed away two years ago.
"Grace," I said.
She paused at the door. "Yes, Mr. Whitaker?"
"Effective tomorrow, your title is no longer housekeeper."
She raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And what is it?"
May you like
"Chief of Staff," I said. "And security detail for the most important people in this house. Double the salary, full medical, and you pick your own staff."
Grace stared at me for a long moment, a slow, knowing smile touching her lips. "I'll take it. But I'm keeping the fireplace poker."
