Chapter 3 - The White House with the Iron Gate
By two o'clock that afternoon, we were back at the house in Westchester. Graham, ever the caretaker, insisted on making me chamomile tea and settling me into the master bedroom before heading to his downtown office to sort out the unexpected work leave he had hastily postponed.
"I’ll only be gone for three hours," he said, kissing my forehead. His lips felt cold. "Mrs. Gable is downstairs with Millie. Sleep, darling."
The moment the rumble of his Audi died down the driveway, I threw off the duvet.
I went downstairs. Mrs. Gable, the elderly housekeeper who came three times a week, was in the kitchen slicing apples. Millie was in the living room, quietly coloring with crayons.
"Mrs. Gable," I said smoothly. "I have to run an errand for Graham—he forgot some signed insurance forms for the travel cancellation. Can you watch Millie for a couple of hours?"
"Take your time, dear. You look exhausted," the old woman said warmly.
I went to Millie. She looked up from her coloring book. She was drawing a large house with white walls, surrounded by tall black vertical lines that clearly represented iron bars. Inside the house, she was coloring a stick figure with long brown hair.
I knelt beside her, my voice dropping to a whisper. "Millie. The lady in the white house... what is her full name?"
Millie bit her lip, looking around anxiously. "Mommy Sarah. Sarah Vance."
"Does she know who I am?"
Millie nodded slowly. "Daddy told her he was bringing home a new mommy to fix the house. Mommy Sarah cried and threw a glass. That was two months ago. Daddy was very mad. He told her if she didn't behave, she'd never see me again."
Nausea surged in my throat, hot and sour. "Thank you, sweetheart. Go back to your drawing."
Thirty minutes later, I was behind the wheel of my Honda Civic, speeding north on the Taconic State Parkway. The summer sun was blinding, but the air inside the car felt sub-zero.
Oakhaven Sanctuary sat nestled at the end of a winding, wooded road marked only by a modest bronze plaque. The perimeter was enclosed by a ten-foot wrought-iron fence draped in manicured ivy—a locked garden, exactly as Millie had said. At the gatehouse, a security guard in a crisp uniform leaned out of his booth.
"Afternoon, ma'am. Name and purpose of visit?"
"Clara... Clara Vance," I said, the surname tasting like poison on my tongue. "I'm here regarding Sarah Vance."
The guard glanced down at his tablet, his eyebrows slightly raised. "Mrs. Vance? We have Graham Vance listed as the primary conservator. He usually visits on the first Sunday..."
"I'm his new wife," I said, holding up my left hand to display the gleaming platinum wedding band. "Graham was called away on an emergency business trip, but Sarah required some personal toiletries and administrative signature reviews before our legal travel. He asked me to step in."
The guard hesitated, tapping the screen. "Mr. Vance has strict visitation protocols. Only pre-authorized individuals."
"Call him if you like," I bluffed, my voice steel. "His phone is currently off as he's in an international board meeting. If you want to explain to him why his wife's legal affairs were neglected today, be my guest."
The bluff worked. People like Graham Vance—wealthy, litigious, commanding—instilled fear in service workers. The guard sighed and hit a button. "Sign the visitor register at the main desk, ma'am. Building B, Room 14."
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The heavy gates groaned open. I drove up the winding driveway toward the imposing, snow-white Georgian mansion that loomed among the oak trees like a mausoleum.
***
