Page 36 of Hidden Heir

I walk out of the bathroom, stopping short when I spot a gorgeous black dress laid out on the bed. There’s a white card resting on top of it. Picking it up, I can’t hide my smile as I’m met with a sweet message from Leon scrawled in black, swirling letters.

Brooke,

Care to join me for dinner tonight? I’ll have the finest silverware polished, and of course, only the best chicken nuggets and mac n cheese for Tiffany.

Regards,

Leon.

It’s so silly. The invitation has to come from a comment I made a few nights ago about how regal and fancy this place is compared to my apartment. Is Leon playing into that? I kind of love that he might be.

The smile doesn’t leave my face as I dry myself off, blow dry my hair and slip into the dress. It’s made of silk, caressing my skin as soft as a whisper while hugging my curves in a flattering way.

I look…beautiful.

“Wow,” I breathe out softly. “I don’t think I’ve ever looked this good.” I turn back and forth, admiring myself in the full-length mirror. Every single day I’m teased with a reminder of how good this life can be.

I grab my phone from the bedside table and snap a few pictures, determined to remember this regardless of which path I choose for the future. It may be the first time I’ve ever taken a picture without a filter. As I’m saving them, a text pings through, and I’m giddy with excitement assuming it’s from Leon.

It isn’t.

As I open the message from an unknown number, all the colors in my world immediately vanish. A searing cold sweepsthrough my body, turning my limbs to ice as I stare down at the most grotesque picture I’ve ever seen in my life.

It’s Hannah.

My nanny.

She’s dead.

Sweet, funny, kind Hannah who helped me teach Tiffany to walk and cared for her while I was so swamped with work.

Her face is peaceful, soft and sweet with her hair curled around her forehead and her eyes closed as if she’s sleeping. But she’s not sleeping.

Her mutilated body takes up the majority of the picture. Her chest has been split wide open, her ribs protruding through flesh, several organs ripped out and discarded. Her arms and legs are bloody, covered in hundreds of cuts and wounds. There are far too many for me to count. The little bit of skin that’s visible and not covered in blood is bruised, one arm resting at an odd angle, suggesting the bone is broken in multiple places.

They also slit her throat.

The picture is so horrific that I don’t know where to look. My stomach cramps sharply, and a deep agony cuts through my chest as I stare down at her face in complete horror.

Hannah.

My eyes flood with tears and I don’t notice the text at the bottom of the picture until I blink, forcing the tears to roll down my cheek.

Tick Tock.

A wave of acidic heat suddenly explodes through my body and I sprint for the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet as my body convulses and I puke up my disgust. Each wave of nausea is agony. I tremble violently and I can barely breathe as I retch repeatedly until my throat is raw and my body feels like it’s been turned inside out.

I’m sobbing uncontrollably and an unnatural chill cloaks my body, creating a trail of gooseflesh over my arms and legs.

This is my fault.

I did this.

Hannah was tortured and murdered because ofme.

She was good. She was so good and innocent.

That bastard Paul. He told me he didn’t know where my babysitter lived. I should have known he was lying. I should have warned her.

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