“My name is Lily.”
Richard repeated the name slowly, trying to remember where he had heard it before.
“Lily…”
“Yes, sir,” she said quietly. “My mother works at your house.”
Understanding dawned instantly.
“Maria’s daughter,” Richard said.
Maria had been the Whitmore family’s housekeeper for nearly fifteen years. She was one of the most loyal and hardworking people Richard had ever employed, though he rarely had time to talk to her beyond brief greetings in the hallway.
He vaguely remembered seeing Lily years earlier, usually sitting quietly at the kitchen table while her mother finished cleaning.
But he had never seen her like this—sitting in front of his son’s grave, crying.
“What are you doing here?” Richard asked gently.
Lily looked back toward the headstone.
“I come here sometimes,” she said.
The answer left Richard uneasy.
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