Chapter 4 - The Name Martha Shouldn’t KnowMartha forced Lily down the narrow service staircase.
“Walk.”
“My hands hurt.”
“Good.”
A plastic zip tie bit into Lily’s wrists behind her back.
Martha had found them in a maintenance drawer.
The warmth and luxury of Lily’s bedroom disappeared as they descended.
The service corridor smelled like dust, laundry detergent and old wood.
Lily tried to think.
Dad had received the alert.
She was almost certain.
Martha’s reaction to the camera proved it.
The question was whether Richard could reach her before Martha did whatever she had planned.
“You’re making this worse for yourself,” Lily said.
Martha pushed her shoulder.
“Keep moving.”
“If the camera sent him the video, police are coming.”
“Maybe.”
“You don’t sound worried.”
“I’ve spent six years preparing for tonight.”
Lily missed a step.
Martha caught her arm.
Six years.
Not months.
Not a sudden breakdown.
Six years.
“You came here for something.”
Martha didn’t answer.
“You took this job because of us.”
“Because of Richard.”
“What did he do?”
Martha laughed quietly.
“You still want him to be the hero.”
“He’s my father.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
They reached the basement.
Martha switched on a row of lights.
The basement was nothing like the damp storage rooms in old houses. Richard had renovated most of it years ago.
Wine cellar.
Mechanical room.
Archive room.
A locked storage area containing boxes from Richard and Catherine’s first house.
Lily had been down there only a few times.
Martha guided her toward the archive room.
“Why here?”
“Because your mother was smarter than Richard.”
Lily stopped.
Martha pushed her again.
“You keep saying you knew her.”
“I did.”
“How?”
Martha unlocked the archive room with a key from her own ring.
Lily stared.
Staff weren’t supposed to have that key.
Richard had always kept one in his office.
Inside, labeled boxes filled metal shelves.
BENNETT — TAX.
CATHERINE — PERSONAL.
LILY — INFANCY.
OLD HOUSE.
Martha went directly to a shelf.
She knew exactly where to look.
She pulled down a white archival box marked CATHERINE — PERSONAL.
Lily’s breath caught.
Martha opened it.
Photographs.
Letters.
An old scarf.
A leather notebook.
Martha began searching.
“You’ve done this before,” Lily whispered.
Martha ignored her.
“You’ve been going through my mother’s things.”
No answer.
“For how long?”
Martha pulled out an envelope, checked it, tossed it aside.
Lily stepped closer.
“You said you knew her.”
Martha’s shoulders became rigid.
“What was she like?”
“Stop.”
“Did she trust you?”
Martha turned violently.
“She trusted everyone.”
Lily flinched.
Martha’s eyes were wet.
Not with sadness.
With old rage.
“That was Catherine’s weakness. She believed people would love her just because she loved them.”
“You hated her.”
Martha looked away.
“I didn’t always.”
The answer changed the room.
Lily forgot the zip tie cutting into her wrists.
“What was your name back then?”
Martha froze.
Lily saw she had struck something.
“You’re not Martha, are you?”
Martha walked toward her.
“Be careful.”
“My father would have recognized you if you were close to my mom.”
“Your father never noticed anyone who wasn’t useful to him.”
“So you changed your name.”
Martha gripped Lily’s face.
“I said be careful.”
Lily stared at her.
And suddenly remembered something.
One of Catherine’s photographs.
A summer photograph from college.
Three young women sitting on the hood of an old Jeep.
Catherine in the middle.
On the back, handwritten names.
Catherine.
Julia.
Marcy.
Lily had looked at it dozens of times.
Marcy.
Dark hair back then.
Thinner face.
But the eyes—
Lily felt the blood drain from her cheeks.
“Marcy.”
Martha’s hand fell away.
Lily whispered it again.
“Your name was Marcy.”
For the first time all night, Martha looked genuinely frightened.
“You were in my mother’s photographs.”
“Shut up.”
“You were her friend.”
“I said shut up.”
“What happened between you?”
Martha slapped her.
The sound echoed between the shelves.
Lily staggered but stayed upright.
“You can hit me all you want,” she said, voice shaking. “It won’t change the fact that I know who you are.”
Martha stared at her.
Then, slowly, her fear turned into something almost peaceful.
“You’re right.”
She reached into the box and removed an old photograph.
Catherine stood beside a younger Martha—Marcy—both smiling into the sun.
Martha held it in front of Lily.
“We were closer than friends.”
Lily looked from the photograph to the woman holding her prisoner.
Martha’s smile vanished.
“Until your mother discovered what I had done.”
“What did you do?”
Martha slipped the photograph into her pocket.
Then she looked at Lily’s shirt.
At the bottom hem.
Lily instinctively shifted backward.
Martha noticed.
Her eyes narrowed.
And Lily knew instantly that she had made a terrible mistake.
Martha reached for the hem.
“There you are.”
Lily twisted away.
But Martha grabbed the fabric.
A tiny metallic shape fell from the concealed fold.
The brass key struck the basement floor.
Both women looked down.
May you like
Martha smiled.
“Finally.”
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