Chapter 3 - THE LETTERS IN LILY’S ATTIC
Lily lived in a small apartment above a bakery on the west side of
Chicago. Roman had never been there. He had never asked where she went
after her shift, what family she had, or why she had chosen to work in
his house.
The realization embarrassed him more than he expected.
He arrived with Eleanor and Reeves, without security. Lily met them at
the door and apologized for the narrow staircase.
“It’s fine,” Roman said.
“You don’t have to pretend you like the smell of the bakery.”
“I do like it.”
She gave him a skeptical look. “You look like a man who has never bought
bread without someone else choosing it.”
Reeves coughed to hide a laugh. Roman glanced at him.
Lily’s apartment was neat but crowded with books, framed family
photographs, and small boxes. She led them to a storage closet and
pulled down a plastic container marked GRANDMA—PAPERS.
“My grandmother’s name was Rose Carter,” she said. “She worked for the
Kane family for nineteen years. She left when the management company
changed.”
Roman looked at her. “Was she one of the people who received a letter?”
“Yes. She said it told her she was no longer welcome to contact the
family. She kept it because she thought it was strange. She had never
asked to stay.”
Eleanor opened the box carefully. Inside were birthday cards, pay stubs,
photographs, and several envelopes tied with a blue ribbon. One envelope
had Elizabeth’s handwriting.
Lily touched it. “That’s the one.”
The letter was dated three weeks before the accident.
“Rose, if I cannot come back to the house, please keep the small blue
notebook. It contains the names of the people who helped me. Do not give
it to Silas. If Roman ever asks, tell him I did not leave because I
stopped loving him.”
Roman read the final sentence twice.
“Where is the notebook?” Reeves asked.
Lily searched the box, then shook her head. “It’s not here.”
She opened another envelope. It contained a photograph of Rose and
Elizabeth sitting in a garden. On the back, Elizabeth had written an
address in Milwaukee and the name Beatrice.
Eleanor compared the date with the hospital form. “This was written
before the accident. Your mother expected something to happen.”
Roman stared at the photograph. His mother looked relaxed, one hand
resting on Rose’s shoulder. It was the first candid photograph of her he
had seen in years.
“Why would she trust Rose with a notebook?” he asked.
“Because Rose knew the household,” Lily replied. “She knew which staff
members were loyal and which people had been asking questions.”
Lily opened a smaller envelope and found a folded page with a list of
names. Several were marked with a small star. Arthur, Margaret, Helen,
Walter, Beatrice, and Rose appeared on it.
Roman felt a chill.
“These were the people removed during the transition project.”
“Not all at once,” Lily said. “My grandmother said the changes happened
quietly. One person would be told the family wanted a younger employee.
Another would be told their position had been eliminated. If they asked
to speak with you, the office said you were too busy.”
Roman looked at the list. “Why these people?”
Eleanor studied the stars. “Maybe they had access to something.”
Reeves found a second page tucked into the envelope. It was a
handwritten note from Rose.
“The notebook was moved to Beatrice’s care. She said she would keep it
until Mrs. Kane could return. If Beatrice cannot be found, ask at
St. Matthew’s parish. She volunteered there after leaving the estate.”
Lily looked up. “I know that church.”
The church was on the edge of an older neighborhood, close to the river.
They went the following afternoon. A volunteer recognized Beatrice’s
name but said she no longer worked there. She had moved to a retirement
community in Evanston.
Roman called the facility. The receptionist confirmed Beatrice Shaw was
a resident, but she had asked that no visitors be admitted without an
appointment.
Eleanor arranged one.
Beatrice was eighty-one, small and alert, with silver hair pinned neatly
at the back of her head. When Roman entered her room, she studied him
for a long time.
“You have your mother’s eyes,” she said.
Roman sat. “You knew she was alive.”
“I knew she survived the accident. I didn’t know where she went after
the second attack.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Beatrice’s expression softened. “Because I was told you had chosen to
cut her out of your life.”
Roman looked at Eleanor.
Beatrice continued. “Silas came to see me after the funeral. He showed
me a letter signed by you. It said your mother had betrayed your father
and that you wanted no one to help her. I didn’t believe it at first.
But then the family stopped paying my wages, and the new manager told me
I would be arrested if I took any papers.”
“Did you keep the notebook?”
Beatrice nodded. “I did. But I didn’t bring it here.”
“Where is it?”
“Safe.”
Roman leaned forward. “Please.”
Beatrice studied him. “Your mother asked me to give it to you only if
you came with Arthur.”
Arthur, who had remained near the door, stepped forward.
Beatrice smiled faintly. “There you are.”
Arthur took her hand. “I’m sorry it took so long.”
“So am I.”
She reached beneath her bedside table and pulled out a small cloth bag.
Inside was a blue notebook, its corners worn. She handed it to Arthur,
who passed it to Roman.
The first pages contained household schedules and staff names. Then came
copies of payments, coded initials, and dates. Near the center was a
list of private addresses. One had been circled twice.
“What’s this?” Roman asked.
“A house your mother rented under another name,” Beatrice said. “She
stayed there after the accident. She left it when someone found the
address.”
“Where is it?”
“Near Lake Geneva.”
Reeves photographed the page. “We can check the property records.”
Beatrice held Roman’s wrist. “There’s something else. Your mother did
not trust the people who claimed to be protecting her. She said the only
person who never asked her to sign anything was a woman named Nora.”
“Who is Nora?”
“I don’t know her last name. She was a nurse at the clinic. She helped
your mother leave before the fire.”
Eleanor looked up sharply. “The clinic that burned?”
Beatrice nodded.
The notebook might lead them to Nora, and Nora might know where
Elizabeth went after the second attack.
Before they left, Roman asked Beatrice whether she wanted anything.
She smiled. “A visit from Arthur. Not a check.”
Arthur promised to return.
In the car, Lily sat quietly with the notebook on her lap.
“You found another piece,” Roman said.
“Your mother trusted my grandmother. That’s a piece.”
Roman looked at her. “You could have sold those letters. You could have
taken them to a reporter.”
Lily shrugged. “My grandmother kept them because she wanted someone to
know what happened. Not because she wanted to make money.”
Roman nodded.
For the first time, he understood that Lily’s late-night food deliveries
had never been only about feeding three old people. She was carrying
forward a promise made by a woman who had once been ignored by the same
household.
When they reached the estate, a message was waiting from Marcus.
“Silas knows you opened the box. Do not go to Lake Geneva.”
Roman read it aloud.
Then a second message appeared.
“He knows about Lily, too.”
Lily’s face changed.
Roman looked toward the gate.
The search was no longer quiet.
Before they left Beatrice’s room, Roman asked her why she had chosen to
keep the notebook for so many years.
“Because your mother asked me to,” Beatrice replied. “But also because I
knew what it would mean if I threw it away. People with power can change
a story. They can make a resignation look voluntary, a death look
confirmed, and a stolen account look like a business decision. A
notebook is harder to argue with when it has dates and names.”
Roman looked at the worn blue cover. “You could have been in danger for
keeping it.”
“I was. I was frightened. But I had spent most of my life watching
people say they were only following instructions. I didn’t want to
become one of them.”
Arthur thanked her. Beatrice smiled at him and told him he still looked
like the young man who used to carry her shopping bags.
In the car, Roman asked Eleanor to make two copies of the notebook. One
would be stored with the legal team, one with the independent
investigator, and the original would remain sealed.
Lily watched him. “You’re learning.”
“What?”
“To ask before taking something that isn’t yours.”
He glanced at her. “I hope I can learn faster.”
“You don’t need to learn everything in one day.”
At the estate, Margaret had prepared a small supper for the group. Roman
nearly declined, but Arthur insisted that he sit down. For years, the
old staff had treated meals as part of their work. That evening, they
served themselves first and left Roman to wait his turn.
He did not object.
As they ate, Helen remembered that Beatrice had once received a package
from a woman who used the name Nora. It had contained a photograph of
the chapel and a note asking her to keep the garden gate unlocked on the
first Sunday of each month.
“Why the first Sunday?” Roman asked.
Helen shrugged. “I never knew. Beatrice said it was a reminder that
someone might come home.”
The detail sounded sentimental, but Eleanor wrote it down. If Elizabeth
had used the chapel as a meeting point, the pattern might help them
establish where she had gone.
Later, Roman found Lily alone in the pantry, checking the food donation
log.
“You don’t have to work tonight,” he said.
“I know. I’m finishing because I want the record to be right.”
He looked at the neat columns of dates, quantities, and recipients. “You
could have hidden all of this from me.”
“I could have. But then the food would still be leaving the kitchen, and
the people outside would still need dinner.”
Roman nodded. “I owe you an apology for assuming the worst.”
“You didn’t accuse me. You followed me.”
“I followed you because I thought you were stealing.”
“And then you listened.”
It was not forgiveness, exactly. It was a beginning. Roman left the
May you like
pantry understanding that trust was not a gift he could demand. It was a
habit he would have to practice.
