Chapter 3 - The Ghost in the Master SuiteBringing Elise home to the Boston mansion was a logistical nightmare and an emotional landmine.
Clare stood by the grand double doors of the foyer, her face pale, arms crossed defensively over her chest. When Thomas rolled Elise across the threshold, the silence in the cavernous house became suffocating.
“Thomas,” Clare breathed, her voice trembling. “What is this?”
“Her name is Elise,” Thomas said smoothly, locking wheels on the chair to keep it steady. “She is staying with us. On a trial adoption period starting today.”
Clare staggered backward as if struck. Her eyes darted from Thomas to the four-year-old girl in the wheelchair. The pain in Clare’s eyes instantly morphed into a fierce, protective terror.
“A trial? You didn’t consult me! You didn’t talk to me about this! You brought a child—a child with special needs—into a house that is still bleeding for Emma?” Clare’s voice rose, cracking with hysteria. “Her room isn't even ready! Do you expect me to just play mother to a stranger while our daughter’s clothes are still hanging in the closet?”
Elise flinched. She clutched her worn teddy bear so tightly its plastic eye popped off and fell to the marble floor.
Without a word, Elise looked up at Thomas, her expression entirely blank, devoid of childhood warmth. “See?” she said flatly. “I told you. She doesn’t want me either. Call the car. I’ll pack my teddy bear.”
Thomas felt a cold rage build in his chest—not at Elise, and not entirely at Clare, but at the cruel universe that kept pitting broken people against each other.
“No one is calling a car, Elise,” Thomas commanded, his voice dropping into the authoritative register he used in boardroom negotiations. He knelt beside her, picked up the stray plastic eye, and placed it in her palm. “Clare is just surprised. Give us twenty-four hours.”
Clare stared at them both, chest heaving. Without another word, she turned on her heel and bolted up the grand staircase, slamming the bedroom door behind her.
That night, the house was alive with tension. Thomas spent three hours converting the ground-floor study—formerly his home office—into a temporary bedroom for Elise, installing a low bed, a ramp to the garden, and bookshelves at eye level.
At midnight, Thomas walked down the dim hallway to check on her. The door was cracked open. Inside, Elise wasn't sleeping. She was sitting up in bed, staring out the window at the city lights, softly singing a lullaby to her teddy bear.
Suddenly, a soft rustling sound came from the end of the hall.
Thomas stepped out into the corridor. Clare was standing outside Emma’s forbidden bedroom, her hand hovering over the brass knob. She was weeping silently, her shoulders shaking.
Thomas walked toward her, his footsteps silent on the thick Persian runner. He didn't say anything. He simply stepped up behind her, placed his hand over hers on the cold brass knob, and gently pulled her away from the door.
Clare buried her face in Thomas’s chest.
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“She’s sleeping in your old office, Thomas,” Clare sobbed into his shirt. “It smells like printer ink and old paper. It doesn't smell like bubble bath and baby powder.”
“I know,” Thomas whispered, kissing the top of his wife's head. “But she’s here. And maybe, just maybe, she can help us air out the ghosts.”
