Chapter 298
“I’m his wife,” Eliza said. The word tasted like ash in her mouth. She held out her hand. It wasn’t a request.
Cathey reluctantly surrendered the folder. As she did, she leaned in, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You’re so lucky, Mrs. Koch. To live here. It’s like a castle.”
“It’s a home,” Eliza corrected her.
“Right,” Cathey giggled. She stepped back, but not before her hand brushed the hallway console table. She lingered there a split second too long.
“Tell him I said hi,” Cathey said. “And tell him family is thinking of him.”
She turned and walked back to the elevator, her hips moving with a confidence that bore no resemblance to her earlier clumsiness.
Eliza closed the door. She felt like she needed a shower.
“Who was that?” Azalea asked, emerging from the kitchen with a green smoothie mustache.
“Cathey Norton,” Eliza said.
Azalea dropped her glass. It shattered on the marble floor, green sludge splattering in every direction.
“She was here?” Azalea hissed. “In our house?”
“You know her?” Eliza asked, stepping over the mess.
“I know of her,” Azalea said, her face going pale. “She’s the accident. Grandpa Ferd’s mistake. She’s connected to Dosha — that woman. The one who hurt Dallas when he was just a kid. She’s bad news, El. Pure poison.”
Eliza felt a chill move down her spine. Dallas had refused to speak of Dosha.
“And now her daughter is working for him?” Eliza asked.
“Grandpa Ferd is trying to force a relationship,” Azalea said, grabbing a towel to clean the floor. “Or maybe he’s just trying to torture Dallas. Either way, that girl is dangerous.”
Eliza looked at the console table where Cathey had lingered. Something white was visible beneath a decorative bowl.
She walked over and pulled it out.
It was a photograph — old, polaroid-style. A younger Ferd Koch sat holding a toddler on his knee. The toddler was Cathey. On the back, in fading ink: My Little Princess.
It was a plant. A message. I belong here too.
“She left this,” Eliza said, holding it up for Azalea.
Azalea made a face. “She’s marking her territory. Like a stray cat.”
“She wants a reaction,” Eliza said, tearing the photograph in half. The sound of the ripping paper was deeply satisfying. “She wants us to tell Dallas so he gets upset. To make him look unstable.”
“So we burn it?” Azalea suggested, producing a lighter from her pocket — for reasons no one would ever fully understand.
“No,” Eliza said, dropping the pieces into the trash. “We ignore her. But we watch her. If she’s playing games, she’s going to lose.”
The invitation arrived by courier the following afternoon — heavy, cream-colored cardstock with gold leaf edges.
The Koch Foundation Annual Charity Gala.
Tucked inside was a handwritten note on personal stationery. Eliza, meet me for tea. 3 PM. The Pierre. — Jeannine.