Claire’s impulsiveness turned the key on each car that drove her off the estate. That same impulsiveness led her to burn the documents in her prison delivery. At least she read them before she destroyed them. That information was the seed that later grew to her impressive research and blossomed into the police department’s evidence.

Besides impulsivity, Claire proved exceptionally obedient. The note in the box told her to read the entire contents—of course—she read it all. Catherine admitted the manipulation of Claire was amusing. After she was gone and in prison, Catherine even missed it. Claire and Anton’s obliviousness throughout the whole game was the best part. This was especially true in the beginning, when he thought Claire knew him well enough to behave accordingly, and Claire feared his reaction if she misbehaved. Neither one realized Catherine was the one setting the rules—it was perfect.

If Governor Bosley hadn’t pardoned Claire, Catherine believed Claire would’ve used that information in the box to expose Anton’s secrets. The knowledge combined with the isolation would’ve energized Claire’s retaliation. After all, who wouldn’t want vengeance after what Claire experienced?

That was as far into the past that Catherine would allow her mind to wonder, because it was during that time that her plan took an unexpected turn. Anton was upset; his anger was peaked. Claire should have been angry. They should have worked to bring each other down. That wasn’t what happened. Not only were they not adversaries, their behavior with one another changed to a more even playing field.

Catherine encouraged Claire’s return to the estate for one reason—to intercede—to put things back on track; however, mild, meek Claire didn’t return. Oh, she wasn’t suddenly loud and boisterous. She also wasn’t obedient and accommodating. What she was—made Catherine’s blood boil. Claire was a Nichols who had the audacity to think she was the lady of the house! She was a Nichols who was pregnant—with a Rawls baby!

In 1985, that had been Catherine. She had been the one expecting a Rawls baby and waiting patiently to become the lady of the house. After all, Sharron was gone. Well, she wasn’t dead; nevertheless, she was gone. Watching that woman die slowly had been excruciating. Catherine vowed to, never again, allow that to happen to anyone she loved.

Then, that same year, it was all taken away from her. Not all—she still had Nathaniel. He taught her how the world worked and showed her that she was loved. Those were gifts she’d never had from her own family. When Nathaniel presented her with the deed to her father’s car dealership, it was the greatest gift—the most anyone had ever done for her. He showed her that his love was limitless; he’d do anything to make her happy. Catherine felt the same way. There were no lengths she wouldn’t go to for Nathaniel—even today. Catherine would never allow a Nichols to live in Nathaniel’s home and produce a child. It didn’t matter that Nathaniel’s home was in New Jersey. The estate where she sat was a worthy facsimile. Catherine was truthful when she encouraged Anton’s construction of the estate and told him how proud Nathaniel would be—he wouldn’t have been disappointed.

As the tips of Catherine’s fingers ran across the top of the private files in the desk drawer, she contemplated the one thing she hadn’t done for Nathaniel. Now that she truly was where he wanted her to be, Catherine Marie owed it to him to do what he wanted. He’d wanted her to contact her daughter. He wanted Marie to raise the girl—but that ship had already sailed.

She eyed the scribed names. There were so many. How could she figure out which one was her daughter? Catherine saw her own name. Maybe there was a clue in her file. When she opened it, she feared her heart would stop pumping. The writing wasn’t Anton’s. Catherine knew his writing well enough to duplicate it, with ease. This writing was Nathaniel’s.

Scribbled in the margin of a contract was the name Sophia Rossi. Catherine went through the drawer again. The only Sophia was Sophia Burke. Suddenly, she no longer remembered her husband’s love—she remembered his vendetta. Burke? Burke? There was no way her daughter could be connected to Jonathon Burke.

Catherine removed the Sophia Burke file and opened the folder. Above the typed name, Sophia Rossi, was the scribbled name Sophia Rossi Burke...Catherine searched the pages. There was a plethora of outdated information; nonetheless, written above the text on the second page was a telephone number. Catherine couldn’t resist; she used the blocked house phone.

Derek answered his wife’s cell phone. The past few weeks had been too much, and Sophia wasn’t up for solicitors or blocked numbers. “Hello?”