Chapter 2 - The Name in the Doorway
"Arthur," Clary whispered.
For a moment, I thought I had misheard her.
My second-in-command stood in the bathroom doorway with five hundred guests waiting for us upstairs. He had been beside me through territorial disputes, broken agreements, and funerals. He knew where I kept my money, where I slept, and which men were allowed to carry guns inside my home.
Now a twenty-six-year-old maid was looking at him as though he were the most dangerous man in the room.
"Arthur collects the payments," she said. "He comes when my shift ends. Sometimes he sends someone else, but he tells me how much I owe."
Arthur's expression barely changed.
"Declan, we can discuss this privately."
"We are discussing it privately."
"The girl is upset. Her brother has a gambling problem."
Clary flinched.
I noticed it. I also noticed Arthur had not asked which brother.
"How much did he borrow?" I asked her.
"Twenty thousand dollars."
"And what does he owe now?"
"They say fifty-three thousand, eight hundred. It changes every week."
Arthur shrugged. "Interest. Penalties. That's the business."
"And the broken arm?" I asked.
The room fell silent.
Clary stared at me. Her eyes were wet, but she no longer lowered them.
"They broke Tommy's arm because we were late," she said. "I took him to the hospital. He told them he fell down the stairs."
I had ordered violence in my life. I wasn't going to pretend otherwise, especially to the woman standing in front of me. But I had never authorized my men to prey on employees inside my own house, and I had never been told that a young man with a gambling debt had been injured to frighten his sister into surrendering her wages.
"Did you give Arthur money in this house?"
Clary nodded.
"Where?"
"The service corridor. By the laundry room. I kept the receipts because I was afraid they'd say I hadn't paid."
Arthur laughed without humor. "Receipts? She could have made anything."
"Then you'll have no objection to showing me your records."
His gaze shifted toward the hallway.
"Stay here," I said.
He stopped.
I took my phone from my pocket and called Mrs. Ward, my household manager. I told her to have the evening's staff paid for the full shift, send everyone not needed home, and keep all employment and payroll records untouched. Then I called Mara Whitfield, an attorney who did not work for Arthur or answer to my organization.
I asked her to come to the mansion.
Arthur watched me make both calls.
"You're bringing an outsider into this?"
"Yes."
"Over a maid?"
I looked at him.
"Over what happened to her."
Clary was gripping the edge of the sink. The cleaning bottle I'd taken from her stood beside an untouched cloth. Through the ceiling, I could hear the distant orchestra starting another song.
"Clary," I said, "is your brother safe tonight?"
"I don't know. He stopped answering me an hour ago."
The last words came out in a rush. She was afraid I would mistake them for an accusation.
"May I call him with you here?" I asked.
She hesitated, then nodded.
The phone rang six times before a tired young man answered.
"Clary?"
Her knees nearly gave way.
"Tommy, where are you?"
"At home. My phone died. I borrowed the neighbor's charger. Why are you calling from a different number?"
"Are you alone?"
"Yes. What's happened?"
She looked at Arthur, then at me.
"I need you to keep your door locked," she said. "I'll explain soon."
I offered her my phone to make another call later and gave her the choice of staying with Mrs. Ward, going home with a driver she selected, or remaining where she was until her own ride arrived. She chose Mrs. Ward. I didn't insist on anything else.
Arthur stepped closer to me.
"Declan, the families upstairs will notice if you don't return. They'll think you've lost control."
"They've already noticed."
"Then you should make an appearance."
I told Mrs. Ward through the open door to have my guests informed that the celebration was over. The kitchen would serve the food already prepared, and the cars could be brought around in an orderly fashion. There would be no explanation about Clary. Her name was nobody's entertainment.
Arthur looked stunned.
"You're ending your own birthday party?"
"I ended it when I came downstairs."
For the first time, he seemed to understand that my decision wasn't a passing fascination with a pretty voice.
Mrs. Ward arrived and quietly offered Clary a clean chair and a glass of water. Clary sat with both hands wrapped around the glass, still wearing the wrinkled uniform she had worked in all evening.
"I want to show you something," she said.
From the inner pocket of her apron, she pulled a small envelope. Inside were folded payment slips, each marked with a date and a sum. Some bore the initials A.R.
Arthur Reed.
The amounts were small compared with the money I handled every day. Three hundred. Four hundred and fifty. Six hundred. To Clary, they were weeks of sleep, skipped meals, and working while her hands trembled.
I placed them on the counter without rearranging them.
"How long?" I asked.
"Since Tommy borrowed the money. Almost eight months."
"Have you kept copies?"
"Photographs. On my phone. I thought they might take the paper."
Arthur's jaw tightened.
"You see?" he said. "She was prepared to accuse someone."
"No," Clary replied before I could speak. "I was prepared to prove I paid."
That distinction stayed with me.
Mara arrived after the final guests began leaving. I told her what I knew and what I didn't. She listened to Clary separately, with Mrs. Ward present at Clary's request. She made copies of the slips, arranged for their preservation, and warned us not to alter accounts or delete communications.
I thought Arthur might object to her questions.
Instead he leaned against the doorframe, strangely calm again.
"Ask him about the collections policy," Arthur said to Mara.
I turned.
"What policy?"
He smiled faintly.
"The one you signed last winter, Declan. The one that says every delinquent gambling account must be pursued until it's settled."
"I signed no order to threaten my staff."
"That's not what the document says."
Mara looked up from her notes.
"Then I need the original."
Arthur held my gaze.
"Of course. But you might not like seeing your signature on it."
I had spent years believing loyalty meant knowing which men would stand beside me in a fight.
May you like
That night, I learned a more dangerous question.
What had those men been doing while I wasn't looking?
