Chapter 2 - The Wind That Changed Everything|
The wind arrived from the Atlantic with enough force to shake the windows of the Curado mansion.
By three o'clock that Thursday afternoon, the gardeners had abandoned their work, and Mrs. Alves had ordered the terrace doors secured.
Camila Dwarte was carrying a basket of freshly washed linens through the east sitting room when she heard her daughter laughing outside.
She immediately stopped walking.
Mia was supposed to be in the nursery with her crayons and Bubbles.
Instead, the little girl stood on the sheltered terrace, holding her stuffed otter above her head as if introducing him to the ocean.
“Mia, sweetheart, come inside!”
The wind swallowed Camila's voice.
Mia turned, smiling, just as a violent gust snatched Bubbles from her hands.
The stuffed animal sailed across the stone terrace and landed beside the decorative railing.
“My baby!” Mia cried.
Before Camila could reach her, the three-year-old ran after him.
Her little shoes slipped on the damp stones.
Camila dropped the laundry basket.
“Mia!”
A man's hand caught the back of the child's sweater an instant before she collided with the railing.
Vincent Curado had appeared from the adjoining study.
He pulled Mia against his chest, stepped away from the edge, and looked down at the trembling little girl.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then Mia pointed toward the railing.
“Bubbles fell.”
Vincent looked at the stuffed otter lying in a puddle.
Without releasing Mia, he bent and retrieved it.
“He seems to have survived,” Vincent said.
Mia examined Bubbles with the solemn concentration of a doctor assessing a patient.
“His ear is wet.”
“We'll have someone dry it.”
“He doesn't like the wind.”
“Neither do I.”
Camila reached them, her heart pounding so violently that she could barely breathe.
She gathered Mia into her arms.
“Don't ever run toward that railing again,” she whispered.
Mia buried her face against her mother's shoulder.
“I wanted Bubbles.”
“I know, baby, but nothing matters more than you.”
Vincent watched them quietly.
Something in his expression had changed, although Camila couldn't identify it.
He looked almost frightened.
The man who controlled shipping terminals, warehouses, and hundreds of employees had turned pale over a small child he barely knew.
Footsteps sounded behind them.
Julian Voss, the chief operating officer of Curado Shipping, entered from the study carrying a leather folder.
He was a polished man in his early fifties, with silver cuff links and a smile that never seemed to reach his eyes.
“What happened here?” he demanded.
“An accident,” Vincent replied.
Julian looked from the scattered laundry to Camila's bare expression of panic.
“Employees were specifically instructed to keep children away from the formal rooms.”
Camila tightened her arms around Mia.
“I apologize, Mr. Voss.”
“This is a private residence, not a daycare center.”
“That's enough,” Vincent said.
Julian blinked.
“I was only reminding her of the rules.”
“And I am reminding you that the child nearly hurt herself.”
Vincent's voice remained calm, but Julian's smile disappeared.
“Have the railing gates checked before sunset,” Vincent continued.
“Of course.”
Julian turned toward the doorway, and Camila noticed that his eyes lingered on Mia for an uncomfortable moment.
Vincent handed Bubbles back to the little girl.
Mia hugged the damp otter against her chest.
“Thank you, Mr. Vincent.”
“You're welcome.”
Then she tilted her head.
“Are you two?”
Vincent frowned.
“Am I what?”
“Two people.”
Camila gave an embarrassed laugh.
“Mia, honey, Mr. Curado is only one person.”
Mia shook her head.
“No, Mommy.”
She pointed toward the gardens beyond the terrace.
“One Mr. Vincent was by the little house.”
Her small finger moved back toward the man standing in front of her.
“And this Mr. Vincent saved Bubbles.”
The atmosphere changed so abruptly that Camila felt it before she understood it.
Vincent stopped breathing for a fraction of a second.
Julian, who had almost reached the doorway, turned around.
“What little house?” Vincent asked.
Mia pointed again.
“The one where the light blinks.”
Camila followed her daughter's finger toward the abandoned lighthouse keeper's cottage.
The building stood beyond the formal gardens, partly hidden by pines.
“I think she saw somebody working near the grounds,” Camila explained.
“Children sometimes mistake people for each other.”
Mia frowned.
“But he had your face.”
Nobody laughed.
Vincent's expression became unreadable.
He crouched until his eyes were level with hers.
“Did he speak to you?”
“No.”
“Did he come close?”
Mia shook her head.
“He looked at Bubbles.”
“Anything else?”
The little girl considered the question.
“He looked sad.”
Vincent stood.
He glanced at Julian, then toward the gardens.
“Desmond needs to review the western cameras,” he said.
Julian answered a little too quickly.
“I'll arrange it.”
“No,” Vincent replied.
“I'll speak to Desmond myself.”
That evening, Camila called her mother after putting Mia to bed.
Elena had finished dialysis earlier that afternoon and sounded tired.
Camila told her about the accident, carefully leaving out the strange conversation.
Elena listened without interrupting.
“Is she all right?”
“She's fine.”
“And you?”
Camila looked toward the dark window.
“I'm beginning to think this house has too many secrets.”
Her mother sighed softly.
“Then make sure none of them become yours.”
After the call ended, Camila went downstairs to retrieve the laundry she had abandoned.
The terrace was empty.
The railing gate had already been repaired, and two security guards stood near the western gardens.
Beyond them, in the darkness, a narrow light appeared inside the old cottage.
A tall figure passed the window.
For one impossible second, Camila thought she recognized Vincent Curado's face.
Then she heard Vincent speaking to Desmond in the hallway behind her.
Camila turned toward the unmistakable sound of his voice.
May you like
When she looked back at the cottage, the light had vanished.
For the first time, she wondered whether her three-year-old daughter had seen something the adults were afraid to admit existed.
