Page 8 of Wasted

Three

Victoria inhaled deeply, then slowly exhaled as she pulled into the driveway of her next client.

She braked in front of the wrought iron gate that blocked entry into Thomas Briscoe’s estate. An intercom and button to buzz for entry stood to the left of her window, but she opened her door instead of using them and got out.

Though it was later in the day than she usually came, already noon now, Thomas likely still wanted her to retrieve his mail.

A cold wind bit her cheeks as she walked to the cranberry red, ornate mailbox at the side of the road.

Her foot slipped. She lifted her hands out from her sides for balance.

Her pulse spiked, but she managed to stay upright, reaching for the mailbox to ensure she stayed that way.

She glanced down to see the reason for her suddenly poor traction.

Of course. A thin layer of ice coated the end of the driveway by the mailbox, likely a result of the recent snowmelt and refreeze they’d had. The joys of winter.

Good thing Thomas always asked her or Judy Kline to retrieve his mail. The housekeeper disliked the task enough, especially in winter, that Victoria was happy to bring in the mail during her twice-weekly visits.

She’d have to ask Ned Parker about applying salt to melt the ice, if she saw the reclusive groundskeeper today.

She removed a few envelopes and a flier from the box. Keeping an eye on the slippery pavement, she went to the keypad next to the intercom and entered the access code.

The gate clicked and slowly retracted, giving her enough time to return to her car and drive through before it closed behind her.

Tension stood her nerves on end as she followed the driveway to the front of the Victorian mansion that was slightly larger than the house in which she had been raised.

Breathe. It wouldn’t do to enter her client’s home with frazzled nerves and unease she could spread to others. She wished she could blame the hostage situation—the second she had survived—for her tender emotional state. Perhaps that explanation would make for an interesting story.

But she knew better.

The memory of Cillian’s handsome face escaped her efforts to keep it at bay, partially obscuring her view as she followed the curve of the driveway. The dark stubble lining his jawline, the deeper furrows on his brow that only increased the intensity he’d always had. And those eyes.

A shiver skidded through her. If only the sensation was merely a delayed reaction to stepping into the cold by the mailbox.

She sighed as she pulled her car to a halt in the parking area past the portico. She shouldn’t let him get to her so much.

But he was working at CareFull Home Health now. At her workplace. And he’d done so because she worked there.

Had he returned to expose her secret? The one only he knew.

But why would he? Why after all these years? If he’d wanted revenge, he could’ve told her father what he knew then, right after she had said she wouldn’t see?—

She pinched her lips together, halting the spiraling thoughts. It didn’t matter. Not right now. She needed to do as she always did while working—set aside her personal life and concerns to serve the client one hundred percent.

And she was already late, in this case, though she had called Thomas to explain and ask if she should still come at a later time. She’d been relieved he’d said yes.

She needed the excuse to avoid meeting with Cillian until she could order her thoughts and regain control of her emotions. She could also use the distraction of seeing one of her favorite clients.

Pushing open her door, she left the car to greet the frigid air once again.

Two cars were already parked next to hers. Brenda and Ryan must be visiting. Thomas would not be in a good mood with his niece and nephew at the house. But their presence would also mean he’d be even more pleased than usual to see Victoria.

She walked under the stone portico and took the four steps to the grand double-door entrance that was framed by pillars.

Seemed odd that an edifice with such a classic, historic grandeur would have an electronic keypad alongside the heavy wooden doors. But Thomas Briscoe was surprising in several respects, including the complete trust he’d placed in Victoria soon after she had begun physical therapy for his recovery from hip replacement surgery.

She entered the passcode, and the lock clicked as it released. Pulling open one heavy door, she slipped inside, scanning the foyer for any of the visitors evidenced by the cars outside.