CHAPTER EIGHT

As I make lunch, my thoughts keep straying to Elijah's suspicion of his own mother. It almost defies sanity to think that she could do that to the father of her children, but then many other women have done far worse.

Still, I like Cecilia. She is aloof and cold at times, but her grief seems completely unfeigned to me, and she seems to care deeply for her children.

A searing pain shoots up my left arm. I jerk it back with a cry and turn my left hand to see a red welt quickly rising on my palm. I was so distracted by my thoughts that I leaned my hand onto the hot stove to rest rather than onto the counter.

Footsteps rush toward me, and a moment later Cecilia enters the kitchen, concern on her face. "Mary? Are you hurt?"

I feel heat climb my cheeks. Fitting that she should be the one to find me and show such concern moments after I suspect her of murder.

"It's nothing. I just burned my hand a little."

She steps forward and, with the authority of a mother, takes my hand and turns it upright. The welt is beginning to blister. She looks at me with pursed lips and says, "This is more than a little burn. You're going to the hospital."

"Please. Don't put yourself out."

"Don't be stupid," she says. "You need to see a doctor. That's second-degree. If you don't take care of it, you'll have scarring and nerve damage. I'm home for the day anyway. I'll take care of the kids."

Speaking of the children, they pick that moment to show up. Samuel sees the concern on his mother's face and immediately rushes to me. "Miss Mary? Are you okay? Mom, is Miss Mary okay?"

Tears are welling in his eyes, and his lower lip is trembling. Cecilia quickly replies, "Yes, she's okay. She just needs to go see a doctor to get her hand looked at. It's a minor burn, nothing to worry about."

Isabella looks at the stove and says, "You forgot to put the soup on the burner."

I look at the stove and see she's right. I have the soup sitting on a cold burner while the burner responsible for searing my hand is red-hot for no reason.

"I was saving it for my hand," I reply wryly.

Elijah chuckles at that, and Isabella glares at him. "That's not funny." She turns her glare to me, and she looks almost exactly like her mother. "Mom's right, go to the doctor."

I hesitate, unwilling to leave the kids alone, but then again, this is what I wanted. This is a perfect chance for Cecilia to rejoin the children's lives. And do I really think she could have killed Johnathan?

I look at her face and see the genuine kindness and concern. No, I don't.

I meet Elijah's eyes. His suspicions remain, but they don't seem particularly powerful.

"All right. Thank you all. I'm sorry to have to leave the soup unfinished."

"I'm not so dependent on servants that I can't boil soup," Cecilia chides gently. "Get your coat and wait on the porch. I'll call Javier to come pick you up."

***

The Ashfords' wealth comes with considerable perks. When we arrive at the hospital, I am ushered directly into the emergency room without needing to wait at reception. I am seen immediately by a nurse practitioner, who, like Cecilia, shows concern for my injury but also reproof.

"How did you manage to do this?" she asks.

Once more, heat climbs up my cheeks. I explain what happened, and the nurse sighs. "Well, you're fortunate it's only a second-degree burn. You could have lost the use of your thumb where this burn's placed. I want you to rest it in some ice water for now. The doctor will be by in a few minutes to examine it, and then we'll dress it and send you home with some instructions. I'll give you one ahead of time: let the family cook be the cook. You make sure the children don't suffer the same silly injury."

She isn't unkind with her reproof, even if her words are a little harsh. Besides, it feels nice to be mothered. At fifty years old, there are few opportunities for that left me.

"Thank you. I will."

She leaves, and I keep my hand in the ice water bath as instructed. The television is tuned to a news channel. I get an odd sense of separation as I watch it. It's as though it comes from another world. A few days in Ashford Manor, and I already feel like I'm part of a different life so that what happens beyond the forbidding walls of the estate doesn't affect me.

I wonder if Johnathan felt the same paranoia. Could the reason for his fears be nothing more than claustrophobia? I certainly hope so.

The nurse returns, accompanied by the doctor. I smile at them, but the nurse's expression causes my smile to disappear. The earlier motherly kindness is gone, replaced by a wary look that I can't possibly believe is directed toward me.

She begins dressing my burnt hand wordlessly, and when I thank her, she musters a half-smile that lasts a brief instant. I look at the doctor and frown questioningly. She studies a chart—mine, I assume—and doesn't meet my eyes.

The nurse leaves as quietly as she came. My hand is bandaged well, and I can already feel the pain-relieving ointment she applies working to soothe my palm, but my heart pounds with fear anyway.

Finally, I can take no more. "Is everything all right, doctor?"

The doctor meets my eyes for the first time. There is concern in her expression but no compassion. "Miss Wilcox, have you been experiencing any unusual dreams lately?"

I blink, stunned. "Dreams? N-no, not that I can recall."

"Have you felt as though someone's been watching or following you? Any paranoia of any kind?"

My suspicions of Johnathan's death flit across my mind rapid fire, but… "No. There's no… doctor, what is this about? I thought I was here for my hand."

"Have you experienced any hallucinations in the past few days?"

"Hallucinations?"

"Yes. Hearing voices that don't belong to anyone around you, perhaps seeing things that aren't—"

"I know what a hallucination is, doctor," I snap, "and know, I haven't… what on Earth is going on? I have a burnt hand. Why are you asking about my mental health?'

The doctor sighs and sits on her stool. She looks pensively over my shoulder for a moment, as though weighing what she wants to say, then turns back to me. "Harriet said you placed your hand on a hot stove while leaving a pot of soup sitting on a cold burner. Is that correct?"

"Yes, but it wasn't because I hallucinated that the flame had migrated. I was just distracted."

"By what?"

"By…"

By my suspicions that my employer may have murdered her husband.

But that isn't paranoia! Not mine , anyway. Elijah is the one who suspects Cecilia.

"Doctor, forgive me," I finally say, "but I hardly think I'm the only person who's seen you for some regrettable household accident. Certainly, this was a rather airheaded mistake, but I can't believe it's indicative of some broader psychological problem."

"Normally, no," she agrees. "However, in your case, I think it's prudent for us to consider all possibilities."

"In my case? What on Earth are you on about? What makes me different from any other fifty-year-old woman of sound body and mind?"

"Your past history of psychological trauma concerns me."

Once more, I'm stunned. "Past history…"

"Yes. Twenty-eight years ago, you were hospitalized for eleven weeks after the disappearance of your sister, Anne Wilcox."

I can hear my heart pounding in my ears. I remember Annie's disappearance, of course. I can still see the look on my father's face when he called the police. I can still hear my mother's voice berating me for not taking better care of her. But the hospital?

"That's…" I stop myself just before saying it's not true. The doctor has my medical record in her hand. If I insist that something isn't true when she can see proof of it committed to paper, then I could simply increase her suspicion that I am unwell.

But… it's not true! Surely, I would remember if I had spent three months in a sanitarium!

"We just want to make sure that you're able to perform your duties, Miss Wilcox. You're responsible for the care of three children."

I stiffen. "I assure you, doctor, I am more than capable of caring for my charges."

"I'm not saying that you would ever intentionally do anything to hurt any of them," she says placatingly. "But their circumstances are very much similar to yours. They've lost a father, and they're struggling with grief. You lost your sister suddenly as well, and it's possible that some repressed memories are affecting your ability to perceive the world around you."

"You can't possibly conclude that from one burnt hand."

"No," she admits, "I can't. I'm just trying to make sure that you're healthy."

"I'm healthy," I say curtly, "and unless you have a pressing reason to feel otherwise, I'd like to pay for my treatment and return to my job."

"No," she says, "no pressing reason. And don't worry about the cost of your treatment. The Ashfords' will charge it to their staff insurance. You will receive a care report, but the bill will be sent to that account—free of all personal medical information, of course."

"Then I shall take my leave," I say. "Thank you, doctor."

"Before you leave," she says, standing to block my exit. "I'd like to give you a card. Mine, of course, but also that of a friend of mine, an excellent psychologist whose practice is located in Glen Downs fifteen minutes from the Ashford Estate."

"I don't need a psychologist," I retort firmly. "Thank you."

"Just take the card," she insists, "and if you need anything at all, please don't hesitate to give him a call. I know you'll find him a warm and caring man."

I have no interest in speaking to any psychologist, but I have even less interest in continuing to argue with this woman, so I nod curtly and allow her to hand me two business cards. After a final terse thank you, I stalk back to the parking lot and get in the back seat of the Ashford's car.

"Everything okay?" Javier asks.

"Fine."

He clams up and doesn't speak for the rest of the drive. I feel bad shutting him down like that, but I am beyond out of sorts right now.

Me? In a mental hospital? That can't possibly be true. Something is wrong here. Something has been fabricated to make me look unwell. Does someone suspect that I'm looking into Johnathan's death?

I pull the business cards out of my pocket. One is for Doctor Yareli Gonzalez, the woman I've just spoken with.

The other is for Doctor Alexander Harrow.

I release a short laugh that earns a nervous glance from Javier. Then I look out the window and put all thoughts of psychologists and paranoia and sanitariums from my mind.

One image remains, and it's an image I haven't dwelt on for years.

Her smile, eternally youthful, remains in my mind later that evening when I head to bed.