Page 20 of The Lost Heiress
“Good morning, Saoirse,” the girl said brightly, smiling up at her from the table. “We were about to send in the cavalry to wake you. You almost missed breakfast.”
Saoirse didn’t say anything.
“The cook made a lovely omelet this morning,” the girl said. “Shall I ask him to make you one?”
Saoirse glanced down at the remnants of egg and bacon and potatoes on the girl’s plate. She thought of her dream, and her stomach squirmed. She pressed her lips together tightly so she wouldn’t throw up.
“I’ll pass,” Saoirse said. “Just coffee.”
The girl went to the sideboard and retrieved an empty mug. “How do you take it?” the girl asked. “Cream? Sugar?”
“Black,” Saoirse said dryly, “like my heart.”
The girl smiled at her little joke. She filled the mug from a carafe and then walked back over to the table and handed it to Saoirse. “Salvador was just telling me about the natural history museum down in Morro Bay,” the girl said. “Have you been?”
Salvador?Saoirse thought. Not Mr. Santos? Why were they so chummy?
“I didn’t realize you two knew each other,” Saoirse said.
“Oh, yes, Salvador and I are old friends,” the girl said.
“We met yesterday,” Salvador said, by way of explanation, “on the road.”
“Ah,” Saoirse said. “I see.”
“The museum is right near the estuary,” the girl went on, “with a great view of Morro Rock. Might be something to see, if you have any interest?”
“I don’t generally find rocks very interesting,” Saoirse said, sipping her coffee.
There was a moment of awkward silence, and then Salvador pushed his chair back from the table and stood. “I suppose I should head upstairs and prepare for today’s lessons,” he said. “Saoirse, I’ll see you in a few minutes.” He looked over at the girl sitting next to him and nodded. “Ana, it was lovely having breakfast with you.”
Ana.Saoirse clocked her name as she nursed her coffee. She supposed she would have to remember it now, at least temporarily. She had stopped bothering to remember their names weeks ago. What was the point, when they all left with such haste? She had found it was best to get rid of them quickly. Saoirse had made the mistake with the first one of being too subtle: itching powder in the woman’s cold cream on the first night. The woman had simply thought she had allergies and hadn’t put two and two together that she’d been purposely sabotaged. Then the next day, Saoirse had dyed all her garments a vibrant shade of pink. Again, the woman thought the maids had simply made a laundry blunder. It was starting to vex Saoirse at that point, this woman’s benevolent view of the world, that any misfortune she might encounter was purely coincidental. It wasn’t until Saoirse had put dye in her toothpaste to stain her teeth green that the woman finally understood she wasn’t welcome and packed her bags. With the others, Saoirse had made grander opening overtures and they, swifter exits.
All the others had been older, middle-aged, cherry-picked by Tabby for their years of service. Most of them had been hospice workers or had been employed at long-term care facilities. They’d spent their days cleaning bedpans and giving sponge baths and holding old, webbed hands as souls passed from this world to the next. They wore sturdy, practical shoes and dour expressions, their hair pulled back from their faces.
But this girl was different. Saoirse studied her adversary sitting across from her at the dining table. Ana sipped her own coffee and looked back at her, unbothered by her stare or the silence. She wasyounger than the others by a couple of decades but also ... softer, somehow. Saoirse wondered at her brother’s choice in bringing her here. She would have thought he would have sent a seasoned, stalwart mercenary to crack the whip. A worthy opponent.
But maybe Saoirse had underestimated the girl. She was, after all, still here.
Ana checked her watch. “Shall we go up?” she asked. “We don’t want to be late.”
“Yes,” Saoirse said. She tilted her head back and drained what was left of her cup. “Let’s get on with it.”
She set her cup down hard on the table.
This girl, if Saoirse had anything to say about it, wouldn’t last the week.
Chapter Six
June 1982
On Thursday, Ransom Towers sat down for lunch with his godfather, William Bass, at the Old Ebbitt Grill on Fifteenth Street. It was the sort of place to see and be seen in DC, which is why Bass preferred it. Ransom didn’t care for that sort of thing, but he liked the building itself. The restaurant was old, and it had a story to it that was reflected in every aspect of each room. Large-game trophies hung on the walls, shot by Teddy Roosevelt himself. There was a mahogany bar that ran the length of the room, and oil paintings hung in gilded frames. There were murals painted on the ceiling and antique gas chandeliers and large exposed crossbeams. It felt warm and homey, lived in.
They were seated in the main dining room at a white-clothed table, a platter of iced New England oysters between them.
“I miss these when I’m away,” Bass said, prying the tender meat from its shell with his oyster fork.
Ransom took a bite of his own oyster, the meat sweet and firm and briny, like tasting a bite of the ocean. It reminded him of home. It reminded him of Cliffhaven.
