Chapter 3: Florence
Florence was in a shared room with a view of a brick wall and a mind sharper than the monitors suggested.
Casey stayed for the introduction. Spencer stayed because Charlee’s hand was in his and he did not know how to refuse that kind of rope. Florence looked at him a long time and said, “You have his mouth. Your father’s. That man could lie with a blessing on it.”
She told the story without asking for softness. Thirty years ago she had worked nights in the Warren house. The old Mr. Warren had promised help and delivered secrecy. A daughter—Charlee’s mother—had been born and raised off the books, paid in cash and silence. Florence had kept the child alive. The Warrens had kept the scandal dead. Charlee’s mother had died in a car wreck five years back. Florence had held on until the hospital took her under and Charlee slipped through a system too full to notice one quiet girl.
“I saw the baby trucks at your gate on the cameras the gardeners use,” Florence said, which made Victor straighten. “I don’t mean trucks. I mean a car that didn’t belong, late. I told the night man. He said rich houses have late cars.”
Spencer funded a private room for Florence before he left, not as payment for blood, as refusal to leave Charlee’s only rooted person under flickering lights. Charlee kissed her grandmother’s cheek and promised to bring Dexter when the nurses allowed. Florence looked at Spencer. “Don’t you make her a secret. Secrets are how this family rots.”
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In the corridor Casey said, “Your niece may need kinship placement paperwork if the DNA lands. Are you prepared for that to be public?”
Spencer thought of boardrooms, of tabloids, of Julian’s face at last month’s dinner. “Prepare it,” he said. “I’ll live with public. I won’t live with bags against my wall.”
