Chapter 2: The Photograph in the Apron Pocket
His name was Richard Calloway.
One of the wealthiest men in the county.
And for three months, he had believed the quiet woman scrubbing his floors was just a desperate girl who needed work.
He was wrong.
She stood in the hallway, the rev0lver steady in her hand, her eyes completely calm.
The intruder was already on the ground.
The threat was over.
But Richard couldn't move.
"Where did you learn to do that?" he asked.
She didn't answer right away.
She set the w3apon down slowly, smoothed the front of her uniform, and looked at him the way someone looks at a person they've been studying for a very long time.
"You don't recognize me, do you, Mr.
Calloway."
It wasn't a question.
Richard's throat tightened.
"Should I?"
She reached into the pocket of her apron and placed a photograph on the hallway table.
Old.
Faded.
Two men standing in front of a building Richard knew very well.
One of them was him.
The other was someone he had spent fifteen years trying to forget.
"That man was my father," she said quietly.
"And you were the last person to see him alive."
The silence that followed was the loudest thing Richard had ever heard.
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What did Richard do to her father — and how long has she been waiting for this moment?
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