Chapter 1 - The Voice Behind the Door
A woman behind the service-room door suddenly whispered, "Please don't come in."
Damon Kessler stopped with one tattooed hand resting against the brass handle.
A small silver music box sat beside her folded linens.
Two letters had been scratched beneath its lid.
D.K.
Damon forgot his own birthday.
For three seconds, neither of them moved.
The singing had stopped.
That bothered Damon more than it should have.
Only moments earlier, the soft melody had drifted through the empty east corridor like something that had escaped from another life. It was imperfect. Untrained. There had been a breath between two notes and a slight crack in the woman's voice when she reached the higher part.
It was the most genuine thing Damon had heard all evening.
Now there was silence.
"Sorry," he said.
The word sounded strange coming from him.
Damon Kessler didn't apologize often.
Not because he enjoyed being rude. He simply lived in a world where people usually apologized to him first.
He removed his hand from the door.
"I thought this room was empty."
"It almost was."
Her answer surprised him.
A laugh nearly escaped him.
Nearly.
He looked through the narrow opening.
The woman standing inside was nothing like the women Silas had spent the evening introducing to him.
No diamonds.
No designer gown.
No practiced smile.
She wore the simple black uniform of the mansion's temporary event staff, with a cream apron tied around her waist. Her blonde hair had been pinned up at the beginning of the evening, apparently, but several loose strands had escaped and curled around her cheeks.
She held a folded linen napkin against her chest.
She looked tired.
Not dramatically tired.
Actually tired.
There was something else in her expression.
Embarrassment.
"You heard me singing," she said.
Damon leaned slightly against the doorframe.
"I did."
"How much?"
"Enough."
Her eyes closed.
"Wonderful."
This time Damon did smile.
"I'm guessing that wasn't intended as entertainment for the birthday party."
"If it had been, I would've charged extra."
The smile disappeared from Damon's face only because he was suddenly trying not to laugh.
Nobody spoke to him like that.
Not tonight.
Maybe not in years.
"What are you doing back here?"
"Working."
"I can see that."
"Then we're making progress."
Damon studied her.
She finally looked directly at him.
Recognition arrived slowly.
Her eyes moved from his burgundy velvet jacket to the tattoos climbing above his open black collar. Then to his face.
Her expression changed.
"Oh."
Damon knew that "oh."
He had seen variations of it hundreds of times.
Oh, you're Damon Kessler.
Oh, this is your mansion.
Oh, you're the man whose birthday we're celebrating.
Oh, I should have behaved differently.
The woman immediately straightened.
"Mr. Kessler."
"There it is."
"What?"
"The part where you become nervous."
"I'm not nervous."
"You're holding that napkin like you're preparing to strangle it."
She looked down.
Her fingers relaxed.
"Maybe I'm nervous."
"Don't be."
"That's easy for the man who owns the house to say."
Damon glanced toward the distant ballroom.
Even through several closed doors, he could hear the orchestra.
Four hundred guests.
Maybe five hundred.
Silas had stopped counting after three hundred eighty.
Politicians, financiers, shipping executives, real-estate developers, actors, athletes, old-money families and new-money families pretending not to hate each other.
Every invitation had been strategic.
Every handshake meant something.
Every woman introduced to Damon had arrived with a father, brother, employer, family friend or personal ambition attached.
The Whitmore woman had talked about sailing for seven minutes before admitting she'd never been on a sailboat.
Another had complimented a painting Damon didn't own.
A third had called him "dangerous" while touching his sleeve as though she'd rehearsed the movement in a mirror.
And now this exhausted staff member was looking at him as if his greatest significance was that he had interrupted her break.
"What were you singing?" Damon asked.
Her expression changed again.
This time the humor disappeared.
"Nothing."
"Didn't sound like nothing."
"It's an old song."
"What song?"
"I don't know the name."
"Who taught it to you?"
She hesitated.
"My mother."
Something tightened unexpectedly inside Damon.
He looked toward the music box.
Silver.
Small enough to fit inside one hand.
Old.
Very old.
"Is that yours?"
Her gaze followed his.
"Yes."
"Interesting initials."
She froze.
Damon walked one step closer but remained outside the room.
"D.K."
The woman quickly picked up the box.
"They don't mean anything."
"You don't know that."
"I know they're not mine."
"Then whose are they?"
"I don't know."
Damon's curiosity sharpened.
"What is your name?"
"Elena."
"Elena what?"
She hesitated again.
"Vale."
Damon repeated it silently.
Elena Vale.
Nothing.
He knew thousands of names.
That one meant nothing.
And yet the melody did.
Somewhere beneath memory, he had heard it before.
"How long have you had the box?"
"My whole life."
"Your mother gave it to you?"
"Yes."
"Where did she get it?"
Elena's posture became defensive.
"Mr. Kessler, I don't mean to be disrespectful, but why are you interrogating a catering employee about a music box at your own birthday party?"
That stopped him.
She was right.
He stepped back.
"I'm not interrogating you."
"You ask questions like someone who expects answers."
"Occupational habit."
"What occupation is that?"
Damon smiled faintly.
"Business."
"That explains absolutely nothing."
"It usually explains everything."
Before Elena could respond, footsteps sounded in the corridor.
Fast.
Silas appeared around the corner.
"There you are."
Damon didn't turn.
Silas slowed when he saw Elena.
Then the open door.
Then Damon.
Then Elena again.
His eyebrows rose.
"No," Damon said.
"I didn't say anything."
"You were about to."
"I was going to tell you the Whitmores are leaving."
"Good."
"And Arthur Whitmore would like five minutes."
"Monday."
"He specifically said tonight."
"Then Tuesday."
Elena lowered her head to hide a smile.
Silas noticed.
His eyebrows climbed higher.
Damon gave him a warning look.
Silas changed subjects.
"The cake is happening."
"The cake?"
"Apparently when people have birthdays, there's a tradition."
"I know what cake is."
"Wonderful. Your guests are waiting."
Damon looked at Elena.
"Will you be here later?"
The question came out before he had decided to ask it.
Elena seemed equally surprised.
"I'm working until one."
Damon nodded.
Then he left.
Silas followed him for several steps before speaking.
"Who was that?"
"An employee."
"You've spoken to dozens of employees."
"Congratulations on noticing."
"You don't ask dozens of employees whether they'll still be here later."
Damon kept walking.
Silas smiled.
"This is interesting."
"Nothing is interesting."
"You disappeared from your own party, and I found you standing outside a utility room talking to a blonde woman."
"Service room."
"Thank you. Completely different."
"She was singing."
Silas stopped.
Damon continued another two steps before realizing his friend was no longer beside him.
He turned.
Silas stared at him.
"She was what?"
"Singing."
"And that caused Damon Kessler to abandon five hundred guests?"
"I had already abandoned them."
"Important distinction."
Damon walked away.
Silas caught up.
"What was she singing?"
"I don't know."
"Was she good?"
Damon thought about it.
"She wasn't trying to be."
Silas's teasing expression softened.
He understood.
That was why Damon trusted him.
They entered the ballroom.
Noise swallowed them.
Applause erupted almost immediately.
Someone had dimmed the chandeliers.
A massive cake had appeared beneath the central staircase.
Damon put on the face the room expected.
Confident.
Controlled.
Untouchable.
Yet when hundreds of guests began singing his name, all Damon could hear was the quiet voice behind the door.
Across the ballroom, Arthur Whitmore watched him.
Arthur was sixty-two, silver-haired, perfectly tailored, and accustomed to being treated like an institution rather than a man.
His daughter Celeste stood beside him in a gold evening gown.
She had been the fifth woman Silas had warned Damon was coming to meet him.
Damon noticed Arthur whisper something to her.
Celeste looked toward Damon.
Then beyond him.
Toward the service corridor.
Damon's eyes narrowed.
The cake was cut.
Photographs were taken.
Hands were shaken.
Twenty minutes passed.
Then thirty.
Damon finally escaped again.
He returned to the east corridor.
The service-room door was open.
Empty.
No Elena.
No music box.
He checked his watch.
12:17.
She had said she was working until one.
A sound came from farther down the corridor.
Damon followed it.
He found Elena near the service staircase carrying a tray of empty glasses.
"You're still here."
She looked at him.
"You sound surprised."
"I thought you'd left."
"I considered it."
"Because of me?"
"Mostly because someone spilled champagne down my back."
Damon noticed a dark stain on her uniform.
"Who?"
She laughed.
"Are you going to have them arrested?"
"No."
"Then it doesn't matter."
Damon took the tray from her.
Elena stared.
"What are you doing?"
"Helping."
"Do billionaires usually carry dirty glasses?"
"Only on birthdays."
She reluctantly let him carry them.
They walked toward the kitchen.
For perhaps the first time in his adult life, Damon Kessler carried a tray while someone else walked empty-handed beside him.
"You still haven't told me about the song," he said.
"You still haven't told me why you care."
"Because I recognize it."
Elena stopped.
Damon stopped too.
"What?"
"I don't know from where."
She stared at him.
"My mother said her mother sang it."
"Your grandmother?"
"Yes."
"What was her name?"
Elena looked suddenly uncomfortable.
"Rose."
"Rose what?"
"Vale."
Again, nothing.
But Damon felt something move in the back of his memory.
Rose.
A woman's laughter.
A piano.
His grandmother standing beside a window.
He couldn't connect the fragments.
"When did your grandmother die?"
"I never met her."
Damon waited.
Elena sighed.
"She disappeared before I was born."
"Disappeared?"
"My mother never talked about it."
Before Damon could ask more, a male voice called from behind them.
"Mr. Kessler."
Arthur Whitmore.
Damon turned.
Arthur stood at the end of the corridor.
His attention wasn't on Damon.
It was on Elena.
More specifically, it was on the silver music box now partially visible inside the open pocket of Elena's apron.
Arthur's face lost its color.
Elena noticed.
Damon noticed her noticing.
Arthur recovered quickly.
"There you are," he said.
"What do you need, Arthur?"
"A private conversation."
"Monday."
"This can't wait."
Arthur looked at Elena again.
"Who is she?"
Elena stiffened.
"Temporary staff," Damon said.
Arthur's jaw tightened.
"I asked her."
Damon's voice cooled.
"And I answered."
Silence.
Arthur understood the warning.
He smiled without warmth.
"Of course."
He walked away.
Elena watched him disappear.
"That man knows my music box."
Damon looked at her.
"You saw it too."
"He looked terrified."
Damon handed the tray back to her.
"Go home when your shift ends."
"Why?"
"Because I want to know why Arthur Whitmore recognized something you've owned your entire life."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
Damon returned to the ballroom.
At twelve forty-five, Arthur and Celeste left.
At one ten, Elena disappeared through the employee entrance.
At one thirty, the final guests began leaving.
At two fifteen, Damon stood alone beneath the chandeliers while staff cleared hundreds of glasses.
Silas approached.
"Successful birthday."
"I need you to find someone."
Silas sighed.
"There it is."
"Rose Vale."
"Who?"
"Elena's grandmother."
Silas studied him.
"What am I looking for?"
"Everything."
Silas nodded.
Then Damon's phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
A photograph arrived.
No message.
Damon opened it.
The image was old.
His grandmother stood beside a piano nearly thirty years earlier.
Beside her was a young blonde woman Damon didn't recognize.
The woman held a silver music box.
Damon enlarged the photograph.
Two letters were visible beneath its lid.
D.K.
Another message appeared.
Three words.
STOP ASKING QUESTIONS.
Silas read it over his shoulder.
Neither man spoke.
Then a third message arrived.
It contained Elena's home address.
And beneath it:
SHE DOESN'T KNOW YET.
Damon looked toward the dark service corridor.
His phone rang.
Unknown caller.
He answered.
A woman's voice whispered one name.
May you like
"Rose."
Then the line went dead.
