"What exactly are you implying, Master Wilkerson?" I demanded, clutching the armrest of my chair until my knuckles turned white.
The royal investigator stood before me with infuriating composure, his portfolio open on his lap as if we were discussing nothing more consequential than the weather. My daughter Clara sat beside me, her face pale with shock.
"I'm not implying anything, Lady Beatrix," he replied evenly. "I'm directly asking about the circumstances of Mariella Beaumont's disappearance and the suspicious nature of Isabella Beaumont's facial injury."
I laughed sharply. "Suspicious? There was nothing suspicious about it. The girl was clumsy and fell down the stairs. As for Mariella, she abandoned her family. I was merely the woman who stepped in to raise her ungrateful daughter."
Master Wilkerson's expression didn't change. "Several former household staff members have provided statements suggesting otherwise."
