Chapter 3
She deleted both messages.
Then she blocked his number.
The silence that followed felt almost frightening.
It was the silence of a door closing.
That night, Claire slept in the smaller bedroom because she had not yet unpacked the linens for the master room. She lay beneath a borrowed quilt while snow tapped softly against the window.
Just before midnight, someone knocked.
Claire sat up.
For a moment, she wondered if Adrian had found her. But Emily had taken the sofa, and the building had a secure front entrance.
Another knock came, quieter this time.
Claire walked to the door and looked through the peephole.
A woman stood in the hallway wearing a gray wool coat and a dark green scarf.
Claire opened the door only as far as the chain allowed.
“Can I help you?”
The woman lifted both hands, showing that she carried nothing.
“My name is Margaret Moretti.”
Claire stared at her.
Adrian’s mother.
Margaret had always been polite in the way expensive furniture was polite—beautiful, composed, and impossible to lean against. During family dinners, she spoke mostly to Adrian and Sophia. When Claire tried to join conversations, Margaret smiled and redirected the subject.
“I’m not here to argue,” Margaret said. “May I come in?”
Claire hesitated.
Behind her, Emily stirred on the sofa.
Margaret noticed. “I understand if the answer is no.”
There was something different in her voice.
Not warmth. Not yet.
But uncertainty.
Claire unlatched the chain.
Margaret stepped inside and removed her gloves. She looked around the apartment, taking in the mismatched furniture without judgment.
“I brought you something.”
She held out a small envelope.
Claire did not take it.
“What is it?”
“Your grandmother’s recipe book.”
Claire’s breath caught.
The book had belonged to her maternal grandmother, who had died two years before Claire met Adrian. It contained handwritten recipes, pressed flowers, and notes in the margins. Claire had kept it in a drawer at the Moretti house.
She had searched for it several times after moving in, but Adrian had said the household staff must have misplaced it.
“Where did you find that?” Claire asked.
“It was in the library.”
“You took it?”
“No. I asked the housekeeper to retrieve it.”
Claire accepted the envelope.
The book was wrapped in brown paper. When she opened it, the familiar blue cloth cover appeared beneath the folds. A small corner of the binding had come loose, exactly as she remembered.