CHAPTER ONE

The plane touches down heavily, prompting a cry from several of the passengers. I anticipate the heavy landing, so I am better prepared for it than others, but I still flinch when the wheels contact the ground with a jolt.

I take a breath and look out the window as the plane slowly comes to a stop. There's a light carpet of snow on the ground. Perhaps this is why the pilot must land more aggressively.

As the plane taxis to the gate, I pull my thoughts away from Annie and onto the job ahead of me. I will be working for the Jensens, a wealthy American family that resides on an estate on Lake Geneva. Their estate is roughly ten miles from the city proper in a neighborhood filled with similar estates.

They live in Switzerland for business purposes. The father, Frederick, is a wealthy hedge-fund manager whose father, Heinrich Jensen, founds the company in Geneva thirty-five years ago and moves his then seventeen-year-old son to the country with him. Frederick never leaves, maintaining dual citizenship for himself and his children.

His wife, Catherine, is a former fashion model. They met at a gala in Geneva. I'm told their wedding was quite a stir among social circles at the time. They've been married for twenty years and have two children: Olivia, sixteen, and Ethan, twelve. These children will be my charges.

We reach the gate, and I am met by a stiffly polite gentleman named Franz who takes my bag and leads me to the baggage claim area where a hulking young man named Pierre retrieves my luggage. The two of them take me to a waiting Rolls Royce. Not a word is spoken between us other than the greeting. I put that to the fact that both gentlemen are Swiss. In my experience, the Swiss are a very polite people who prefer to maintain their distance from strangers until they get to know them better.

So, the journey begins in silence. That silence combined with the carpet of white and the already dimming sky puts a chill through my heart and pushes my thoughts back toward Annie.

The weather was similar when she disappeared. The winter in Boston is somewhat harsher than the winter in Vienna, but the winter she vanished was fairly mild. I see her last the night she disappears when she chooses to walk home from our parent's house rather than take public transit as I repeatedly urge her. She doesn't return home that night, and when I wake the next morning and see that she is still gone, I call the police.

The next twelve weeks progress from denial to panic to desperation and finally to despair. By the time the police department drop the case, all hope for her survival is lost. As Sean alludes to during our conversation, the belief is that she was kidnapped on her walk home and eventually murdered. I don't want to think about what might have happened between her kidnapping and murder.

But…

But so many things. If she was killed, why was her body never found? Why were her footprints not found in the woodland path she took from our parents' home? I know she took that path because she always did. Unfailingly, she preferred it to the main road.

I suspect sometimes that she wasn't kidnapped but instead ran away. She wasn't happy with her life in Boston and talked frequently of leaving. But if she left of her own accord, then why didn't she contact me? She and I were thick as thieves. I can see her running off without telling our mother, but without telling me. I can't believe that. She would have at least left a note.

Sean is right that there's nothing to be found, but the fact that there is nothing is what makes me suspicious. It's as though she vanished into the night, pulled into the sky by aliens, or whisked away by fairies to parts unknown. She was there one moment, then she was gone. No evidence of foul play, no evidence of running away, no evidence of kidnapping or of an accident that might have befallen her.

That is what I refuse to accept. Something happened, and if something happened, then something was left behind that can tell me what it was. That's what Sean will discover for me.

The sedan turns a corner, and I put thoughts of Annie aside again as I regard the Jensen estate. Each family I work for since leaving my job as a schoolteacher two years ago is vastly wealthy, and each home reflects not only that wealth but the character of the family. The Ashford Estate is barren and bleak, and the family is just as barren and bleak. The Carlton estate is utterly resplendent, but it hides death in its perfectly manicured gardens and the perfect smiles on the faces of its inhabitants. The Tylers—the only family thus far that hides no terrible secrets—live in a perfectly ordinary if opulent mansion in Cheshire. The Greenwoods live in a Georgia plantation that is a relic of the past and houses a family that clings desperately to its own past even as it tries to hide it.

The Jensen estate is small compared to the others, perhaps five acres. The garden—covered in frost this time of year—comprises three of those acres. Another of those acres consists of a boathouse and a stretch of shoreline along the lake. The rest of the property is occupied by a sprawling mansion that is quite possibly the largest residence I've ever seen in my life. It rises five stories at its tallest point and is constructed of white stone and glass. At least, I believe it's white stone. To be honest, I'm not entirely sure. Its design is far more modern than the other estates I've seen. There is more glass in evidence than stone.

That glass is what intrigues me. I don't care much for the modern design of gleaming squares and rectangles with wall-to-wall windows arranged in semi-symmetrical stacks on top of each other. I prefer timeless elegance to technological innovation.

But the glass here interests me because it is entirely opaque. Were it not for the soft gleam of the rising moon that reflects from its surface, I wouldn't know that it was glass. Windows are designed to reveal, but these windows seem to serve the opposite purpose. The contradiction here makes me wonder what the family will be like when I meet them. Will they hide secrets just as this house with its acres of windows does?

One of the opaque panes of glass opens to reveal a massive interior garage with space for three dozen vehicles. It seems Frederick Jensen is an avid automotive enthusiast.

I mention this to Franz when he opens the door for me, and he informs me that it is Catherine, in fact, who is the automobile aficionado.

"She is quite infamous for purchasing the latest sports and luxury vehicles as soon as they become available," he says in slightly accented English. "Mr. Jensen indulges her."

"He must love her very much," I remark.

"Oh yes," Franz replies. "Very much."

It could just be the accent, but I detect a hint of sarcasm in his reply.

Pierre retrieves my luggage, and we begin the journey to the house proper. It's a far longer journey than I expect. The garage, evidently, is placed opposite the living quarters. I am accustomed to managing for myself, but I am grateful for Pierre's help. Today, I wear a long dress and a woolen coat against the cold, and my shoes are fur-lined boots rather than the comfortable pumps or sneakers I prefer. I don't relish the thought of a long trek carrying two heavy suitcases.

The door we walk through opens into a long hallway that serves as an art gallery. I am not a connoisseur of art, but the paintings and statuary I find within the hallway are displayed behind glass as though at a museum, and the pieces are labeled. Several of them display their certificates of authenticity next to them.

"Is Catherine a fan of art as well?" I ask.

Franz smiles slightly. "No, that is Frederick. Although I'm told that he collects art as an investment rather than out of passion. It seems that art purchases come with significant tax write-offs."

"Ah. I see."

We turn a corner, but once more, we are not at the house. Instead, we are in a hallway bordered on one side by a large bathhouse with locker rooms, saunas and showers and on the other side with a massive swimming pool. The water must be heated since there's no hint of ice on the surface.

Finally, at the end of this hallway, I am ushered into a small foyer. I say small as a relative term. It is larger than my hotel suite in Boston but far smaller than the grand foyer at the front of the house.

The family waits for me here. They are dressed formally and impeccably. They turn to face me as one when I enter the room.

"Miss Mary Wilcox," Franz announces.

He steps back next to Pierre, who stands silent and still like a golem, my luggage still effortlessly suspended above the ground.

Frederick steps forward. He is around my age and though not handsome carries himself with a distinguished manner that combined with his impeccable dress makes him appear almost dashing. He takes my hand and shakes it firmly in the American manner. "Frederick Jensen. It's a pleasure to meet you."

"And you, sir."

He steps back, and on cue, his wife saunters over to me. She is tall and statuesque, not a single blonde hair out of place, not a blemish to be found on her porcelain skin. Her movements belie her past work as a fashion model. I am not typically intimidated by beauty, but hers is the cold, hard beauty of a goddess, and I suppress a shiver as she takes my hand. "Catherine." She gestures to her children. "This is Olivia, my daughter." Olivia nods sullenly toward me. "My son, Ethan." Ethan nods anxiously.

"It's lovely to meet you all," I tell them, smiling and giving a little bow. "I look forward to getting to know all of you."

"You will have dinner with us tonight," Frederick informs me. It's not a request. "Franz, show her to her room, please."

"Of course," Franz replies with a stiff bow. "Right this way, Miss Wilcox."

I follow him, and the unaddressed Pierre follows me. Franz leads me through a third corridor, explaining as he does, "The servants' quarters are at the rear of the estate across from the guest house. Don't be worried if it's difficult to remember where everything is at first. You'll soon get your bearings."

He leads me to a room that I would consider to be spacious and opulent but is probably minimalist for such a family. It contains a plush queen bed, a full dresser and chest of drawers, and its own bathroom and walk-in closet. Pierre solemnly sets my bags on the floor and leaves the room as silent as a ghost. Franz waits until he leaves, then tells me, "I will return in one hour to fetch you for dinner."

Then he is gone, and I am left to wonder what else hides behind the family's opaque glass and icy greeting.