The Lodge in Vermont
Chapter 08 - The Lodge in Vermont
The Castillo property in Vermont was not supposed to exist.
At least, not in the family brochures.
Castillo Holdings owned resorts in Puerto Rico, Miami, San Diego, and Aspen, along with enough office towers and apartment complexes to make accountants speak in hushed tones.
The Vermont lodge was different.
A private place hidden behind pines, purchased under a subsidiary named Cielo North, used for board retreats, discreet recoveries, and, according to Miriam, “the sort of family business no one wants near a lobby camera.”
It was also three hours from Boston.
Elena wanted to go.
Miriam said no.
Mrs. Alvarez said absolutely not and packed sandwiches anyway.
Adrian said he was already on a plane.
That made Elena want to go more.
The compromise was ugly and practical: Miriam would drive with Elena, two private security officers, and Detective Lena Ortiz from Boston, who had been pulled in after the court order crossed state lines. Noah and Lily would stay with Mrs. Alvarez, guarded by a retired federal marshal named Ruthie who looked like someone’s cookie-baking aunt until she opened her coat and revealed a shoulder holster.
Lily liked her immediately.
Noah asked if Ruthie knew karate.
Ruthie said, “I know consequences.”
Noah nodded, impressed.
Before Elena left, she knelt by both children in the kitchen.
“I am going to help find Camille.”
“And the baby?” Lily asked.
Elena’s throat tightened.
“And the baby.”
Noah watched her too carefully.
“Is the baby ours?”
Miriam, standing near the doorway, went still.
Elena had not planned to tell them yet.
But children lived inside adult secrets even when doors were closed.
“We don’t know,” Elena said. “There is a chance the baby could be connected to our family.”
Noah frowned. “Like a cousin?”
“Maybe more like a sibling.”
Lily looked at her rabbit.
“Mr. Button says babies are loud.”
“He is correct.”
Noah asked, “If it’s Dad’s baby with that lady, do we have to be mad at it?”
Elena’s eyes burned.
“No. Babies do not make adult mistakes.”
Lily nodded solemnly. “Good. Mr. Button says the baby can borrow one blanket, but not the purple one.”
Elena hugged them both.
The drive north was quiet.
Vermont arrived in gray winter light: bare trees, frozen fields, barns leaning against weather, small towns with churches and diners and American flags snapping in the cold.
Miriam worked on her laptop most of the way.
Detective Ortiz reviewed property records.
Elena watched the road and tried not to imagine Camille scared somewhere without her phone.
She did not like Camille.
She did not forgive Camille.
But she understood the danger of being pregnant near Castillo ambition.
They reached the lodge just before dusk.
It sat at the end of a private road, all dark timber, stone chimneys, and windows reflecting the pale sky. No smoke from the chimneys. One black sedan parked near the side entrance. Fresh tire tracks in the gravel.
Detective Ortiz held up a hand.
“No one rushes.”
Miriam muttered, “I hate needing sensible advice.”
Security cleared the side porch.
The front door was unlocked.
Inside, the lodge smelled of cedar, cold ashes, and expensive emptiness.
Elena stepped into the great room and saw a fire laid but not lit, a half-empty glass of water on the table, and a woman’s scarf draped over the back of a chair.
Camille’s scarf.
She recognized it from a photo Adrian once claimed was taken at a business lunch.
“This way,” Detective Ortiz said.
They found Camille in an upstairs bedroom, sitting on the floor beside the bed with her coat still on, one hand over her stomach and the other holding a cordless phone that had been unplugged from the wall.
She was pale, shaken, and alive.
Elena stopped in the doorway.
Camille looked up.
“I didn’t come here willingly,” she said.
Miriam moved past Elena carefully.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“The baby?”
“I think okay.” Camille started crying. “I don’t know. Vanessa said if I stayed quiet, she would fix everything.”
Elena looked around the room.
“Where is Vanessa?”
Camille pointed toward the hall.
“She left when she heard cars.”
Detective Ortiz spoke into her radio.
Security moved.
Miriam helped Camille stand.
Then Elena saw the papers on the bed.
Fertility records.
Trust amendments.
Passport applications.
Three sets.
One for Vanessa.
One for Camille.
One for a child not yet born, already named in black ink.
Mateo Adrian Castillo.
Male heir.
Elena’s stomach turned.
“She was going to take the baby out of the country,” Miriam said.
Camille sobbed harder.
Elena picked up the passport application.
The child’s mother was listed as Camille Rios.
The father line was blank.
The guardian line read Vanessa Castillo.
Not Adrian.
Not Elena.
Vanessa had not intended to give her brother an heir.
She intended to own one.
A crash sounded downstairs.
Detective Ortiz drew her weapon and moved.
Elena stayed with Camille until Miriam touched her arm.
“Look.”
On the bedside table sat a silver picture frame facedown.
Elena turned it over.
Inside was a photograph of Margaret Castillo holding newborn Adrian in a hospital room decades earlier. Behind her, younger Vanessa sat on the bed, a little girl with dark hair and a furious expression, staring at the baby as if he had stolen something.
On the back, written in Margaret’s handwriting:
My son, my future.
Nothing about Vanessa.
Elena looked at the photo for a long moment.
Then, from downstairs, Adrian’s voice rang through the lodge.
“Vanessa, stop!”
Elena ran to the stairwell.
Below, Adrian stood in the great room facing his sister.
Vanessa held a folder in one hand and fireplace matches in the other.
Her face was pale, her hair loose, her eyes bright with something far older than greed.
May you like
“You all wanted an heir,” she said. “So I made one I could finally control.”
Then she struck a match.
