WHY DO YOU BELIEVE HIM?

SERENA

I wake up in my tiny room, the memory of Alexander's eyes on me still lingering like a phantom touch. The morning light filters through the windows, pale and watery, and I lie there for a moment, replaying the moment in his study—the way he looked at me when I said "let's find out together," the vulnerability that flickered across his face before he shut it down. I tell myself it's just the mystery pulling me in, just the need to understand what happened to his brother. But my heart knows better.

I find him in the kitchen, standing by the counter with a cup of coffee that's probably gone cold. He's staring out the window, his reflection a ghost in the glass, and I watch him for a moment before he turns and sees me. His expression shifts, the mask sliding back into place.

"I'm sorry about last night," he says, and his voice is flat, controlled. "I shouldn't have... I shouldn't have burdened you with all of that."

I step closer, my bare feet silent on the cold marble floor. "You didn't burden me. You needed someone to listen. That's not a crime, Alexander."

His jaw tightens, and he looks away. "I don't usually do that. I don't... I don't let people in."

"Maybe that's the problem." I reach for the coffee pot, pouring myself a cup, giving him space to breathe. "Maybe you've been carrying this alone for too long."

He is quiet for a long moment, and I can feel the weight of his silence pressing against my skin. When he speaks, his voice is softer, almost hesitant. "Why do you believe him? You don't even know me. You don't know Leo. Why do you believe a child's drawing over a police report?"

I set the coffee down and turn to face him fully. He is standing closer than I realized, close enough that I can see the flecks of silver in his gray eyes, the faint lines of exhaustion around his mouth. "Because I believe the truth," I say, and my voice is steady. "And that drawing? That's the first truth I've seen since I walked through this door."

He stares at me, and for a moment, the mask cracks completely. I see the man beneath—the grief, the guilt, the desperate need to find answers. "Everyone told me I was grieving," he says, and his voice is rough. "They told me I was paranoid. That I was looking for someone to blame because I couldn't accept that my brother died in a random accident." He runs a hand through his hair, the gesture almost violent. "I wanted to believe them. I wanted to believe it was just bad luck. But then Leo started drawing, and I couldn't... I couldn't pretend anymore."

I step closer, my heart pounding against my ribs. "You don't have to pretend anymore," I say softly. "You don't have to carry this alone."

Alexander looks at me, his gray eyes searching mine, and something shifts between us—something electric and undeniable. I feel my breath catch, feel the heat rising to my cheeks. He takes a step forward, his bruised hand reaching out, and I think for a moment that he's going to touch my face, but he stops himself, his hand hovering in the air between us.

"You're not what I expected, Serena Johnson," he says, and his voice is barely a whisper.

I swallow hard, forcing myself to breathe. "Neither are you."

The silence stretches between us, thick and charged, and I realize I'm holding my breath. He is close enough that I can smell his cologne, something expensive and faintly woody. I can see the tension in his jaw, the way his hand trembles slightly before he drops it back to his side.

"I should go," I say, but my feet don't move.

"Serena—" He starts, then stops. He shakes his head, a rueful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Thank you. For believing me."

I nod, not trusting my voice. I turn away and walk out of the kitchen, but I feel his gaze on me the entire time, a weight that settles in my chest and refuses to leave.

I spend the rest of the afternoon in my tiny room, the drawings spread across my bed, the red crayon scrawl burned into my mind. HE DID IT. A six-year-old child drew that. A six-year-old child saw something he wasn't supposed to see. I reach for my phone, my fingers trembling.

My father answers on the first ring. "Serena? It's late. What's wrong?"

"I need to ask you something, Daddy. And I need you to think. Really think."

I hear him sit down, the creak of his old chair. "I'm listening."

"Do you remember a case from about fifteen years ago?" I ask, my voice steady despite the pounding in my chest. "A woman. She died—they said it was suicide. Her name was Elena. Elena Vasquez."

The silence on the other end of the line is so complete, I think he's hung up.

"Daddy?"

"I remember." His voice is different now—older, heavier, like he's pulling something from a deep well. "I remember the case. I was the detective assigned to it."

"What happened?" I press, my heart racing.

"Elena Vasquez was a young assistant for George Otto. The billionaire. She was having an affair with him." He pauses, and I hear him take a shaky breath. "She was found dead in her apartment. Pills. A suicide note. It was ruled a suicide."

"But you didn't believe it."

"No." The word comes out hard, almost angry. "I didn't. She had no history of depression. Her friends said she was happy. And she was pregnant, Serena. She was going to have a baby."

The air leaves my lungs. "Pregnant."

"Pregnant," he confirms. "I pushed for further investigation. I asked for a full autopsy, a toxicology report. And I was told to stop." His voice trembles. "I was pulled off the case, Serena. Told to forget it. They threatened me—said I'd lose everything if I kept pushing."

"Who threatened you?" I demand. "Daddy, think. Any name. Any face."

"I don't remember." But his voice wavers, and I know he's lying. "I don't remember who gave the order, Serena. I'm sorry. I have to go."

"Wait—"

"Serena. Don't tell anyone you asked me this." His voice is urgent, almost frightened. "I'll call you back. Just... be careful."

The line goes dead.

I stare at my phone, my heart pounding, Elena Vasquez's name echoing in my mind. Pregnant. Happy. Murdered. A six-year-old's drawing. A man with a gold watch. HE DID IT.

I look at the drawings spread across my bed, and I feel a certainty settle deep in my bones. I'm not just a nanny anymore. I'm going to find the truth—and I'm not going to stop until I do.