Somebody had buried Toby. Somebody had wanted her blamed. And Maren, wiping tears from her cheeks, whispered into the darkness, “If I was placed here for a reason, don’t let me fail. Not this time.”
The next morning brought no relief. The manor’s gardens were trampled, flowers crushed into mud, a sharp reminder of the night’s terror. Maren stayed back, watching from the hedges, bruises hidden beneath her sleeves, staff moving past her as if she were air. Celia Renaud, the woman who had orchestrated the chaos, floated past with her morning tea, flawless as ever, smiling at servants who nodded nervously in her presence. Maren knew that smile; it masked everything dangerous.
In the foyer, Maren found Toby’s favorite toy truck peeking out from under the rug. She knelt, brushing away the dirt. The sharpie letters on the underside spelled “T. Lennox.” Her stomach knotted. Someone had planted it back as a warning.
“You shouldn’t be here,” a cold voice said behind her. Maren stood, facing Celia, her hair perfectly arranged, her expression a mask of faux concern. “I’m keeping him safe,” Maren said firmly.
Celia’s lips curved in a cruel smile. “Safe? You call meddling safety?”