Chapter 4 - The Second Woman
The drive back to Gladwyne was suffocating.
Bennett drove his Mercedes SUV with one hand on the steering wheel, while Chopin played softly through the sound system. Miles slept peacefully in his rear-facing car seat, completely unaware that his mother’s body was humming with pure adrenaline. My right arm was immobilized in a fiberglass cast, throbbing relentlessly, but my mind had never been sharper.
"Mother prepared the guest suite for you," Bennett said pleasantly, as if we were returning from a casual dinner party. "She thinks it’s best if Miles sleeps in her room tonight so you can rest your arm."
My blood ran cold. "Miles stays with me."
"Mara, be reasonable. You can’t even lift him with one arm."
"I can nurse him with one arm," I replied, keeping my tone flat, docile, defeated—the exact performance he wanted. "I need him near me, Bennett. Please. I’m scared."
Bennett glanced at me in the rearview mirror. Seeing my lowered head and trembling lips, his chest puffed out slightly. Men like Bennett thrived on female surrender. "Alright. But Mother will be checking in on you every two hours."
We pulled through the wrought-iron gates of 47 Aldercrest Lane. The estate loomed out of the swirling snow like a gothic monolith. Stone turrets, dark slate roof, and the wide front steps—now salted, the treacherous black ice that had nearly killed my son scrubbed clean.
Vivienne was waiting in the grand foyer.
She wore a pearl-gray cashmere sweater set, her silver hair pinned into a flawless chignon. She held a silver tray with a steaming mug of chamomile tea. Her eyes, pale and sharp like chipped flint, raked over my cast before settling on my face.
"Oh, darling," Vivienne sighed, stepping forward with outstretched arms. "What a dreadful, clumsy accident. I haven't slept a wink. I’ve been praying for you and little Miles."
She tried to hug me. The stench of her heavy tuberose perfume made my stomach heave. I forced myself to lean into the embrace, feeling the cold, rigid frame of the woman who had shoved me into the dark just hours ago.
"Thank you, Vivienne," I whispered, playing my role. "I’m sorry I blamed you. I was so disoriented."
Vivienne pulled back, a victorious glimmer dancing in her pupils. "Of course you were, sweet girl. Trauma does terrible things to fragile minds. Drink this tea. It has valerian root and honey. It will help you sleep through the pain."
I looked at the amber liquid. A memory flashed in my mind—Dr. Keene’s warning. *Find out who number two was.*
"I’ll drink it upstairs," I said meekly, taking the mug with my left hand. "I just want to put Miles down."
Twenty minutes later, Miles was asleep in the crib beside my bed in the east wing. I walked into the adjoining bathroom and poured the entire mug of tea down the drain, rinsing the sink thoroughly.
If Vivienne wanted me drugged into stupor, she had an agenda for tonight.
I waited until the grandfather clock in the downstairs hallway struck 2:00 AM. The house was dead silent, save for the creaking of timber in the freezing wind. Slipping out of my boots, I tiptoed down the carpeted hallway toward the private study of the late Harrison Carrow—Vivienne’s deceased husband.
Dr. Keene had said Vivienne archived everything. The Carrows were old Philadelphia aristocracy; they kept receipts of their cruelty because they genuinely believed their bloodline was above the law.
I slipped inside the study, closing the door until the latch clicked silently. Using the flashlight on my phone, I scanned the mahogany built-ins. Behind a false front of leather-bound encyclopedias, I found a brass key taped beneath the desk drawer. It opened a steel lockbox tucked inside the bottom credenza.
Inside were three thick manila folders labeled with names and dates.
*Audrey Vance – 2021.*
*Mara Vance-Carrow – 2023.*
And between them: *Clara Morales – 2018.*
My breath caught. Clara Morales.
I flipped open Clara’s folder. Photographs tumbled out. Clara was young, barely twenty-two, with warm brown skin and bright, laughing eyes. She had been Miles’s predecessor’s live-in nanny during Audrey’s early pregnancy. But as I read the legal agreements and medical reports, the horrifying truth emerged.
Clara hadn't been just a nanny. Bennett had gotten her pregnant first.
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There was a hospital intake form from the very same ER Dr. Keene worked at. Clara had suffered a fractured collarbone and severe uterine trauma after "falling" down the Aldercrest basement stairs at seven months pregnant. She was paid a half-million-dollar settlement from the Carrow Family Trust to sign a non-disclosure agreement and surrender parental rights before the baby was stillborn.
Vivienne hadn't just pushed me tonight. Pushing pregnant women down stairs was her signature method of domestic execution.
