“And after the accident?”
Amara’s face changed.
“After the accident,” she said, “I came here.”
Noah went still.
“What?”
“I came three days after Ava died. I had a letter from her.”
“Why have I never heard this?”
“Because your mother’s security turned me away at the gate. Then an attorney called and said if I returned, I’d be arrested for harassment.”
Cold moved through Noah’s chest. “What attorney?”
“Philip Voss. Ashford family counsel.”
Noah knew the name. Knew it too well.
“What was in the letter?” he asked.
Amara looked at him for a long moment. “A warning.”
“About what?”
Before she could answer, Noah’s phone rang.
Russell Dane.
Noah stepped aside and took the call.
“I dug into your caregiver,” Russell said without preamble. “You’ve got more story than résumé here.”
“Tell me.”
“She is who she says she is, mostly. Former pediatric rehab specialist. Excellent references buried under domestic work because she left the medical side after a dispute at a donor-funded clinic. Filed complaints about missing grants and patient neglect. Got iced out. Also, eighteen months ago, she was arrested for trespassing at Ashford Foundation offices in Manhattan.”
Noah’s gaze snapped to Amara across the terrace.
“What was she doing there?” he asked.
“Trying to deliver a sealed packet to someone named Ava Ashford, according to the arrest note. Packet confiscated. No charges pursued.”
Noah ended the call slowly.
When he looked back up, Amara already knew.
“You checked on me,” she said.
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And you were at my foundation offices after my wife died.”
“I told you I tried.”
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