Page 9 of After the Fall

I froze. Tank was seated in one of the wingback chairs in the living room, giving him a perfect view of the front door.

My eyes narrowed. “What does it matter?”

“It matters to Wyatt.” He crossed his arms and straightened.

“I’m allowed to leave,” I scowled. “I’m not a prisoner. You can’t keep me here.”

“No. I can’t.” The side of his mouth curved into a smile. “But they can.”

I followed his eyes. The two guards stood just outside the kitchen in the hallway. The taller one cleared his throat, a scowl on his face. He slid his phone back into the pocket of his jackets and patted it. “Sorry, ma’am. But we have orders not to let you leave. For any reason.”

“For fuck’s sake,” I muttered, taking a deep breath. “And I’m not a ma’am.”

The other guard shuffled on his feet. He whispered something to the first guard, then cleared his throat. “We, uh, have direct orders from Mr. Westwood himself.”

I released my grip on the doorknob and threw my hands in the air. “Fine,” I muttered, exasperated.

I turned toward the living room where Tank sat in silence, his cold, calculating eyes locked on mine. “You win this round,” I grumbled.

As I sulked toward the kitchen, I had to pass the two guards. They stared right through me, refusing to make eye contact.

The kitchen sparkled. The old housekeeper was busy scrubbing the marble counters but paused as I came into the room. “Miss Harper. Good morning.” She spoke gently, and some of my anger at Tank and the guards began to thaw.

I perched on the tall velvet bar stool and rested my elbows on the counter. “It’s Gloria, right?”

She beamed. “Yes, miss. Can I get you something to eat?” She gestured to a glass stand filled with muffins and pastries. “Perhaps a blueberry muffin?”

They looked delicious, but my stomach was in knots. “No, thank you.” I glanced out the window. “I think I might go for a walk.”

Her eyes clouded with concern. “I’m not sure…” She glanced in the direction of the front door.

“Just in the backyard. I know I’m not supposed to leave,” I huffed.

She exhaled nervously, and I wondered how much she knew about Wyatt and his crew. Could Gloria be a good source of information? Or even better, an ally? I could use one in a house where everyone hated me.

“Actually, a muffin sounds good, Gloria. Thanks.”

She smiled, and it carried through to her eyes. “Wonderful. Not to toot my own horn, but I’ve been told I make the best muffins in Seattle.” She lifted the glass and scooped out a plump muffin. “Perhaps warmed up with some butter?”

My mouth salivated. “That sounds good. Thanks.” I traced my finger over the smooth marble countertop. “How long have you worked for Wyatt?”

“I stopped counting,” she smiled. “I’ve known Mr. Westwood since I was a wee child.” She placed the muffin on a small dessert plate and cut it in half, then slathered it with butter. “My mother worked for Mr. Westwood and his family, and when she retired, I took over.”

“You grew up together?” My eyes scanned her face, wrinkled with age.

Gloria bowed her head. “Forgive me. It’s not my place to discuss Mr. Westwood.” Her hands shook as she opened the microwave door.

I didn’t want to cause any trouble for Wyatt’s staff, but my curiosity was piqued. “How old are you, Gloria?”

The microwave beeped at the same time as she whispered, “Seventy-two, miss.”

My jaw dropped. Had I heard her correctly?

Gloria set the warmed muffin in front of me. “If you’ll excuse me...” She wiped her hands on her lilac apron before scurrying away.

“Wait,” I called out. But the pantry door swung shut behind her.

I stared at the muffin on my plate, my appetite suddenly gone.

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