Chapter 2 - THE VIDEO
The videographer’s name was Owen Price.
I had spoken to him once during the reception.
He was thirty-something, thin, nervous, and clearly wishing he had chosen another profession at that exact moment.
Camille stepped toward him.
“You will erase that recording.”
Owen froze.
I did not.
“No.”
My mother looked at me.
“This is Celeste’s private wedding.”
“Which makes the footage Celeste’s decision.”
Camille turned immediately toward my sister.
Celeste stood beneath the chandelier with Thomas beside her.
Her wedding had stopped being a celebration.
Her expression had become something else.
Recognition.
Fear.
And shame.
Camille softened her voice.
“Sweetheart.”
I had heard that tone before.
It was the voice she used when manipulation needed to look like affection.
“You do not want the worst moment of your wedding preserved forever.”
Celeste looked at Noelle.
“No.”
Camille relaxed.
Then Celeste continued.
“But Adrian does.”
Camille’s smile disappeared.
Celeste turned to Owen.
“Give my brother a copy.”
“Celeste.”
“I said give him a copy.”
My mother stared at her daughter.
For several seconds, neither woman spoke.
Then Camille smiled.
It was not a pleasant smile.
“I see.”
Celeste’s hands trembled around her bouquet.
“Mom, you hurt her.”
“She embarrassed me.”
“She is eight.”
“You were disciplined at eight.”
Celeste’s face changed.
I saw the memory before she could hide it.
So did Camille.
That was the moment I realized this story had not begun with Noelle.
It had begun decades earlier.
I carried my daughter from the ballroom.
My security director, Marcus Hale, followed us.
Marcus had worked for me for nine years.
Before that, we had spent years handling corporate security operations in places where disagreements sometimes became dangerous before breakfast.
He had seen me furious.
He had never seen me like this.
He said nothing until we reached the hotel suite upstairs.
Noelle sat on the bathroom counter while I cleaned sauce from her face.
Her hip had begun turning purple.
Marcus stood near the door.
“We should have a doctor look at that.”
“I already called one.”
Noelle looked at me.
“Am I in trouble?”
I stopped.
“For what?”
“For making everybody angry.”
I put the towel down.
“Noelle.”
She stared at her shoes.
“Grandma says people get angry because I don’t think before I do things.”
My stomach tightened.
“When did she tell you that?”
Noelle shrugged.
“A lot.”
I sat beside her.
“What else does Grandma tell you?”
Noelle’s eyes immediately went to Marcus.
Marcus understood.
“I’ll wait outside.”
He closed the door.
Noelle remained silent.
I took her hand.
“You can tell me anything.”
“She said I shouldn’t tell you things because you have important work.”
I felt cold.
“What things?”
Noelle hesitated.
“When I stayed at her house last summer…”
My breathing slowed.
Noelle had spent four weekends with Camille during the previous summer while I handled an emergency acquisition overseas.
I had called every night.
Noelle always said everything was fine.
Now I understood why.
“She made me eat in the kitchen sometimes.”
I stared at her.
“Why?”
“Because I spilled juice.”
“How many times?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did she ever hurt you?”
Noelle’s eyes filled.
She shook her head too quickly.
That was my answer.
“Noelle.”
“She only grabbed me.”
“Where?”
“My arm.”
“How hard?”
She pulled up her sleeve.
There was nothing there now.
Whatever marks Camille had left were long gone.
But Noelle touched the same spot automatically.
“She said you used to learn faster.”
I closed my eyes.
My mother had compared my daughter to me.
Of course she had.
Camille’s favorite weapon had always been comparison.
My father had died when I was seventeen.
After that, nobody remained in our house who challenged her.
I had left at nineteen.
Celeste had stayed.
Perhaps that explained more than I wanted to admit.
A knock came.
The physician had arrived.
While Dr. Bennett examined Noelle’s hip and shoulder, Marcus handed me a memory card.
“Owen made the copy.”
“Where’s the original?”
“Still with the production company.”
“Good.”
Marcus hesitated.
“There’s more.”
I looked at him.
“One of the photographers approached me downstairs.”
“What about?”
“He said he noticed your mother with Noelle earlier tonight.”
My pulse shifted.
“What did he see?”
“He wouldn’t say in the ballroom.”
“Where is he?”
“Parking garage.”
I looked toward Noelle.
The doctor was testing the movement of her shoulder.
I wanted to remain with her.
I also wanted to understand exactly how much of my daughter’s evening I had failed to see.
Marcus read the conflict on my face.
“I’ll bring him upstairs.”
Five minutes later, the photographer entered.
His name was Aaron Bell.
He carried two cameras.
His hands shook slightly.
“I don’t want trouble.”
“You already have it.”
He swallowed.
“Fair.”
He opened one camera and scrolled through images.
“It happened before dinner.”
A photograph appeared.
Camille stood behind Noelle near a hallway outside the ballroom.
Her hand was wrapped tightly around my daughter’s wrist.
Noelle’s face was turned away.
The second photograph was worse.
Camille was leaning down.
Her mouth was close to Noelle’s ear.
My daughter’s expression was terrified.
Then Aaron showed me the third photograph.
A woman stood approximately twenty feet behind them.
She wore the hotel’s catering uniform.
She was staring directly at Camille.
“Who is that?”
Aaron shook his head.
“I don’t know.”
Marcus leaned closer.
“I do.”
I looked at him.
“She works for your mother.”
The room seemed to narrow.
“What?”
“Her name is Lydia Crane.”
“Why is my mother’s housekeeper working at Celeste’s wedding?”
Marcus looked at the photograph again.
“That is exactly what I think we need to find out.”
Then Noelle spoke from behind us.
“She was the lady Grandma told to watch me.”
Every adult in the room went silent.
I turned.
Noelle’s face had gone pale again.
“What do you mean, watch you?”
May you like
Noelle swallowed.
“Grandma said if I told you what happened at her house, Lydia would tell everyone I was lying.”
