“You saved him tonight, Elena,” he said.

“If you hadn’t noticed the smoke when you did, the fire would have reached the bedrooms.”

“I was only doing my job, sir,” I said, looking down at my apron.

“No,” Alexander said, his voice softer now.

“You were doing what you always do.”

“You were watching over him.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small piece of paper.

It was a fragment of the letter Eleanor had left behind.

“The police found this in Celeste’s bag,” Alexander said.

“She had stolen it from my desk before the fire started.”

He handed it to me.

The paper was charred at the edges, but the elegant handwriting of his late wife was still legible.

*…the only one who truly sees him,* the writing read.

*The one who does not look at the name Hawthorne and see a bank account.*

My eyes filled with tears as I read the words.

“Eleanor knew,” Alexander said.

“She knew the people from our old social circle would try to tear this family apart after she was gone.”