Chapter 3 - The Grandmother's Secret
The crumpled receipt burned a hole in Maya’s pocket all day.
She didn't understand cars, but the words "brake line modification" stood out to her.
Why would Victor have a three-year-old mechanic's receipt in his coat pocket today?
When Maya returned to the small apartment that evening, the smell of medicine seemed stronger.
Catherine was sitting up on the couch, watching the evening news.
“How was work?” Catherine asked, her voice raspy.
“I didn't get fired,” Maya said, setting her bag down.
“Good. That means they need you more than they want to admit.”
Maya sat beside her grandmother, pulling the receipt from her pocket.
“Grandma, do you remember the night you learned that French lullaby?”
Catherine stiffened.
The change was microscopic, but Maya had been caring for her long enough to notice.
“Why are you asking about that old tune?”
“Because my boss heard me humming it. He said his wife wrote it for their daughter. They both died three years ago.”
Catherine closed her eyes, letting out a long, heavy sigh.
“Ironwood General. November 14th.”
Maya nodded slowly.
“You were the trauma nurse on duty.”
“It was a terrible night,” Catherine whispered, her hands trembling as she smoothed the blanket over her knees. “Rain pouring down. They brought the woman in first. The little girl... she was already gone.”
Maya reached out, holding her grandmother's fragile hands.
“The mother, Elise. She was slipping away,” Catherine continued. “She kept crying, asking for her baby. I didn't know what to do. I just held her hand.”
“Is that when she sang the song?”
“No,” Catherine said, opening her eyes. “She hummed it to keep herself awake. Because she told me she had to stay alive long enough to tell her husband something.”
Maya's heart raced.
“Tell him what?”
Catherine looked at the television, but she wasn't seeing the screen.
“She told me it wasn't an accident. She said, 'He cut the lines. Tell Arthur it was him.'”
“Who?” Maya asked, her voice urgent.
“She died before she could say the name,” Catherine replied. “I told the police. They wrote it in the report, but they ruled the crash an accident anyway. Said she was delirious from blood loss.”
Maya pulled the crumpled receipt from her pocket and smoothed it out on the coffee table.
“Grandma,” Maya breathed. “I think I know who she meant.”
She showed Catherine the paper.
Catherine squinted at the faded ink, reading the name at the top of the invoice.
Victor Vance.
“Maya,” Catherine said sharply. “You need to quit that job. Tomorrow.”
“I can't. If Arthur's brother-in-law killed his family, Arthur needs to know.”
“You are a maid, Maya! Not a detective. These are wealthy, dangerous people. If this man murdered his own sister, what do you think he'll do to you?”
May you like
Maya looked at the receipt, then thought of Arthur, sitting alone in that massive, cold house.
“I don't know,” Maya said quietly. “But I know what it feels like to lose your family. I can't leave him in the dark.”
