Neither did Noah.
He only said, “Come to my study after breakfast.”
She looked at him once and nodded. “Yes, sir.”
When Amara stepped into the study twenty minutes later, Noah was standing by the window with the silver compass on his desk between them like evidence at trial.
She saw it and stopped.
“Tell me the truth,” he said.
Her eyes lifted to his. “About what?”
“Do not insult me by asking that.” His voice was controlled, but just barely. “You went into the boathouse last night. You took this. You brought it back. Why?”
Amara was silent for a beat too long.
Then she closed the door behind her and said, “Because Lila told me to look there.”
Noah let out one hard breath through his nose. “My eight-year-old daughter instructed you to break into a locked building?”
“She said, ‘Mama put the star in the boat house.’” Amara’s gaze flicked briefly to the compass. “I thought she meant this.”
“You could have told me.”
“I considered it.”
“And decided not to.”
“I decided not to wake a grieving father at midnight with something I couldn’t explain yet.”
Noah laughed once. No humor in it. “Yet.”
Amara took another step into the room. “Mr. Ashford, I know how this looks.”
“No, you know how it is. You are in my house under false pretenses.”
Her face changed then. Not guilt. Not fear. Something like tired disappointment.
“I never touched your money. I never touched your daughters in anger. I never lied about wanting to help them.”
“You lied about something.”
“Yes,” she said quietly. “I did.”
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