Chapter 3

Miles stayed in the room until Aria closed her eyes.

It took almost an hour. She was wired and frightened, her small body running on adrenaline and fear, and every time a nurse walked past the door her hand tightened on his. Cora came back twice — once with a warmer blanket, once with a cup of warm milk that Aria drank in tiny sips while her father pretended not to notice that his own hands were shaking.

The drawing lay on the bedside table, face down.

"When did they take her locker?" he asked Cora, when Aria's breathing had finally settled into the slow rhythm of sleep.

Cora checked her tablet. "The day nurse did rounds at six this morning. She logged the locker as full — said she saw the books and the clothes through the slats. The evening nurse came on at seven. She didn't check it."

"Six to seven," Miles said. "One hour."

"An hour is a lot of time," Cora said quietly.

She looked at him, and there was something in her eyes that wasn't professional anymore. "Mr. Ashford — Miles — I've worked this floor for eleven years. I've seen families. I've seen the good ones and the bad ones and the ones you have to watch. And I'll tell you something I shouldn't tell you. When a grandmother visits her sick granddaughter, she doesn't usually bring a cigarette case with a drawing hidden inside it."

Miles looked at the case.

"How did she get the drawing?" he said. "Aria said she took it. Last week."

"The child's been here three days," Cora said. "So the visit was before that."

"Last Tuesday," Miles said, thinking. "I was in New York. Aria was at the estate. My mother said they had a nice afternoon — tea, cookies, a walk in the garden."

Cora's eyebrow went up. "And the drawing?"