The grand dining hall of the St. Clair estate smelled of expensive roasted duck, vintage champagne, and a cruelty that had been brewing for months.

That afternoon, Orson took Mara for a walk down to the private lake at the edge of the property. The water was smooth as glass, reflecting the clear blue sky above.

They sat together on the wooden bench at the end of the dock, watching the wild ducks float lazily near the reeds.

Mara leaned against her father’s arm, holding her new inhaler pouch tightly in her lap.

"Daddy?"

"Yes, Mara?"

"Is Stepmom Tamsin ever coming back?"

Orson looked down at his daughter, his expression gentle. "No, sweetheart. She had to go away for a very long time."

Mara was quiet for a moment, her small eyes looking out over the water. "I didn't like her very much. She always smelled like cold perfume, and she made me hide things."

Orson wrapped his arm around her small shoulders, pulling her close. "You don't ever have to hide anything from me, Mara. Ever."

"I know," Mara said softly. She reached into her dress pocket and pulled out a small, worn silver locket attached to a delicate chain.

Orson’s breath caught slightly in his throat.

It was his late wife’s locket—the one item that had gone missing from the master safe months before Tamsin had been exposed.

"Where did you find that, Mara?" Orson asked gently.

"I found it in the bottom of my toy box this morning," Mara whispered, opening the tiny silver oval to reveal a miniature photograph of her mother smiling warmly under the summer sun. "I think Mommy was protecting me the whole time."

Orson felt a rare lump form in his throat. He reached out, his broad, calloused thumb gently wiping a tear from Mara’s cheek.