It was not a question.
“Yes.”
“He trusted very few people.”
“I did my job well.”
“And yet you left without notice.”
Dalia looked up sharply.
There it was.
The first crack in the walls she had built.
“I gave notice through the agency,” she said carefully.
“You gave paperwork. That is not always the same thing as notice.”
Her pulse quickened. “Is there a problem with my employment?”
Rowan studied her for another moment. “Not yet.”
Not yet.
The phrase followed Dalia through the rest of the morning.
She polished silver in the dining room with hands that refused to steady. She changed flowers in the foyer while Bobby watched from the base of the staircase. She carried fresh towels to the guest wing and found Mrs. Hargrove waiting there, arms folded, expression carved from ice.
“Mr. Fiero spoke to you this morning,” Mrs. Hargrove said.
“Yes.”
“About Bobby?”
Dalia hesitated. “Partly.”
The housekeeper’s mouth tightened. “That dog has lived through three attempted poisonings, two attempted kidnappings, and more liars than most priests hear in a lifetime. If he chose to sit beside you, people will notice.”
“I didn’t ask him to.”
“That rarely matters in this house.”
Dalia glanced down the corridor. “Should I stay away from him?”
Mrs. Hargrove’s expression changed, but only slightly. Not softness. Recognition.