Page 59 of Filthy Little Lies

I’ve been sent home. Alone.

CHAPTER 17

Gabriel

I’m barely in the front door of the house before Mrs. Neville pops into the foyer with a fierce frown.

“What did she do now?” I ask as I shrug out of my coat.

“Her who? The woman you treated like day-old luggage?” She folds her hands in front of her, giving the impression she’s ready to go to battle.

Men piss themselves when they see me coming, but my housekeeper merely frowns.

“I think the expression is day-old bread.” I put my coat away. “And I didn’t treat her like that.”

“I heard her talking to her friend, the one that’s moving in a few days. Did you even know about that? She’s losing her best friend in a few days, and then you go and throw her in the car and send her away.”

I roll my shoulders. “I sent her home.”

“Without you.”

I pause. “Is that what has her upset? I didn’t go with her?” I stand straighter.

“She didn’t say that exactly, but you’ve been gone almost a week. And she’s been rattling around this big house by herself. Then you come home, put her in a car and send her away.”

I fold my arms over my chest and give the best glower I can manage. “Did she tell you this?”

“She didn’t need to.”

I drop my arms. “You were eavesdropping again.”

“I was dusting.” She shrugs.

“Of course you were,” I say. “And where is she now?”

“She’s working in your office,” she answers sharply.

“My office? Why not her room or upstairs?”

“You can ask her after you apologize for being so cold to her.”

“It’s eight o’clock, isn’t your husband waiting for you?”

“He has his poker game tonight, but I do need to get going. I made you a plate, it’s in the oven.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Neville,” I say. “And thank you for watching over our guest.”

“Guest? Is that what you’re still calling her?” She shakes her head with a laugh. “Go talk to her. I’ll be back in the morning.”

I find the door to my office cracked open. I push it open enough to see her, sitting on my ox-blood leather couch with a file folder in her lap.

Her file.

I’ve stared down the barrel of a shotgun, had more than one knife fight not go my way in my lifetime, but seeing her with the evidence that I’d dug into her past—a past she’s made a steadfast effort to keep concealed—twists my insides.

“I know you’re there,” she says without looking up from the papers laid out in her lap. “It’s your office, you don’t need to hover outside.”

When I step inside, she lifts her head. Her cold stare washes over my face.