Chapter 8: The Photos They Wanted Deleted
I found Marta in the laundry room that morning with an envelope on top of the dryer. It was thick, cash, the kind of fold that doesn't come from a bank. She wouldn't touch it. Her hands were knotted in the edge of an apron and she kept looking at the door like someone might come back.
Ellis had been there ten minutes earlier, she told me. He'd set the envelope down and said it was a thank-you for her discretion. All she had to do was tell anyone who asked that the thing with my pajamas had been a misunderstanding. That I'd tripped on the marble and the boys had tried to catch me, that the pulling at my collar wasn't what it looked like.
I asked her what she said.
She shook her head. Her voice was low and scared. "I told him I didn't see you trip. I saw what I saw." She pushed the envelope toward me with one finger like it burned. "I can't take this. But I need this job, miss. My cousin told me what House Lancaster does when staff makes trouble."
I took the envelope and put it in the pocket of my sweatshirt. My pajamas with the blue piping were folded in a paper evidence bag on the counter, and I told her she didn't have to be brave alone. I took a photo of the envelope where it had sat, the dryer, her hands, and then I wrote down exactly what she said, the time, Ellis's words as she remembered them. She watched me and didn't stop me, but her breathing was shallow and fast.
Preston found us a minute later. He looked at the bag, at Marta, at me, and said Ellis was just trying to keep the peace before the donors arrived. He said the Vosses were restricted to the east wing but I knew that wasn't true. I'd seen Jace's black leather jacket hanging over the banister that morning like he owned the place.
I needed to get off the property. The gas station diner on Route 17 had wifi and it wasn't on Lancaster land. I told Marta to stay where there were cameras and to call Deputy Alvarez if anyone came back. Then I drove.
The diner lot was half empty. I parked under the flickering sign and ordered coffee I didn't drink. I uploaded everything from my phone in the booth — the photos of my pajama collar stretched out, the close-up of the marble floor and the window light behind it, the shot of the two leather jackets tossed over the chair just like they'd been that night, the envelope on the dryer. I watched the little cloud icon spin and turn to a checkmark. My hands were shaking so bad I had to steady the phone with both.
When I came out, Jace was leaning against my car.
He was in the same black leather jacket with the zipper detail, buzz cut catching the afternoon sun, stubble shadowing his jaw. He didn't move at first. He just smiled.
"Thought you'd run," he said. "You got something that isn't yours on that phone."
The church parking lot next to the diner was empty except for my car and his truck parked too close to the driver's door. The white lines were faded and a Sunday school sign flapped in the wind. I kept my keys in my fist and didn't step closer.
He pushed off my car and came two steps toward me. He wasn't shouting now. That was worse. His voice was low and even. "Give me the phone, and this stays quiet. You don't want House Lancaster tearing itself apart over a little embarrassment, do you? Said yourself how powerful they are."
He meant the line I'd thrown at him on the floor — House Lancaster will tear you limb from limb. He was turning it around.
I said no. One word. Quiet.
His smile tightened. He reached for my wrist and I stepped back onto the asphalt, my shoulder hitting the diner's brick wall. I could smell gas and fried food and his leather. He grabbed at the phone in my hand and I pulled it to my chest.
"Don't be stupid," he said. "If I get to have the lunar suite, I get to have other things too. Delete the photos and we forget it."
I didn't fight him for it. That was what he wanted — a struggle he could call a misunderstanding again. I remembered the tight close-up of my own hands clutching my top, how hard I'd had to hold on. I wasn't doing that in a parking lot in daylight.
I lifted the phone just enough for him to see the screen was still on, then I stepped sideways toward the church lot's open side where the road was visible. I kept my voice even. I'd practiced it in the booth.
"It's already uploaded," I told him. "And Deputy Alvarez is getting the phone next. You can take it from me here and it'll still be there, and now there's a witness camera on the diner and you following me off the estate."
He looked up at the diner's security camera, then back at me. For a second I saw the same snarl from that night, teeth bared, leaning in. Then he let go and laughed like I was being difficult.
The sheriff's substation was three minutes down the county road, a low brick building with a flag out front. Deputy Alvarez was at the desk when I walked in, still in my sweatshirt, phone hot in my hand.
I told her Jace had cornered me in the church lot and demanded the phone. I told her about Ellis and Marta and the envelope. I showed her the upload on my cloud, the time stamps, and then I handed her the phone itself.
"I want this on chain of custody," I said. "Don't delete anything. I need you to log the witness tamper too."
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She bagged the phone, tagged it, wrote down the parking lot, the diner, Jace in the leather jacket, the exact words about deleting the photos and the lunar suite. She photographed the envelope I pulled from my pocket and sealed that too. She said following me off property after being told to stay in the east wing was an escalation and she was documenting it as such.
When I left the substation, my hands were empty. The photos weren't on me anymore, but they were in two places where no one could quietly make them disappear. For the first time since I ended up on that marble floor, the evidence wasn't just in my bedroom or my pocket. It was somewhere they couldn't reach.
