What the Bunny Carried
Chapter 03 - What the Bunny Carried
Children reveal truths because they do not understand which ones adults have priced.
Vivien understood immediately.
I saw it in the way her head turned toward the hallway and in the way she stopped breathing for half a second. Elena, who had not yet made it to the kitchen, stood frozen near the stairs with Mia beside her.
The stuffed bunny hung from Mia’s arms by one soft ear.
“What paper, sweetheart?” I asked.
Elena closed her eyes.
Vivien said, “Lorenzo, this is absurd.”
That word—absurd—had been used in my world for everything people were afraid would become evidence.
I walked into the hall and lowered myself in front of Mia again.
“May I see the bunny?”
Mia looked at her mother first.
Elena shook her head so slightly most people would have missed it.
Mia did not miss it.
Neither did I.
“You can say no,” I told the child. “He belongs to you.”
Mia considered that. Then she held the bunny out with grave ceremony.
“He’s called Mr. Biscuit,” she said.
I accepted him as if receiving something more important than an animal stitched from beige cloth, because to her, I was.
The bunny had a little blue waistcoat and one missing button. Along the seam under its left arm, white thread had been clumsily restitched. Not by a seamstress. Not even by a careful adult.
By small fingers helped by frightened hands.
“Mia,” Elena whispered.
“It’s okay, Mommy,” Mia said. “Uncle Lorenzo listens.”
I looked up at Elena.
Her face broke a little at that.
Vivien came into the hallway. “I really must object to this. A child’s toy is hardly—”
“Stop speaking,” I said.
Not loudly.
The silence after it was enough.
I found the end of the thread and pulled gently. The seam opened. Inside, between stuffing and cloth, was a narrow strip of paper folded into a square no wider than my thumb.
Elena covered her mouth.
Mia leaned close and whispered, “Mr. Biscuit ate it.”
I unfolded the paper.
It was a copy of a pharmacy delivery receipt.
My mother’s name was printed at the top.
Isabella Duca.
Below that, a list of medications. Some I recognized from her prescriptions. One I did not.
At the bottom was a handwritten note.
Increase evening dosage before family calls.
There was no doctor’s signature.
Only initials.
V.A.
Vivien Ashcroft.
The house seemed to lean around me.
My mother had been tired on family calls. Sleepy. Confused. She had forgotten dates, repeated herself, lost focus. I had accepted medical explanations because rich men are as capable of cowardice as poor ones; we simply call it trust in professionals.
Vivien looked offended before she looked afraid.
“That is a staff matter,” she said.
“A staff matter?”
“Elena stole private medical paperwork.”
Elena finally spoke. Her voice barely reached us.
“I found it in the laundry chute.”
Vivien turned on her. “You went through my things.”
“It was wrapped around a broken vial.”
“Liar.”
Mia flinched.
That was all it took.
I stepped toward Vivien, stopping at a distance no man could misunderstand. I did not touch her. I did not need to.
“You will lower your voice around the child.”
Vivien’s nostrils flared. “You cannot possibly believe her over me.”
“No,” I said. “I don’t believe anyone yet.”
That was the first lie I told her.
I believed Mia.
Children may misunderstand shadows, but they rarely invent paperwork.
Vivien drew herself up. “Then call Dr. Halpern.”
“I will.”
“He’ll confirm your mother’s care has been appropriate.”
“I’m sure he’ll try.”
Her face hardened.
There was a knock at the far end of the hall. Marco, my chief of security, appeared in his black suit, earpiece visible, expression blank. He took in the positions—Vivien pale, Elena trembling, Mia holding an opened bunny, me with a pharmacy receipt—and wisely asked nothing.
“Sir?”
“Take Mrs. Walker and Mia to the breakfast room. Stay with them.”
Elena stiffened. “Please, I don’t want trouble.”
“Trouble found you three months ago,” I said. “I’m late.”
Something in her eyes shifted then. Not trust. Not yet. But the possibility of it.
Marco guided them away.
Mia turned before she disappeared around the corner.
“Uncle Lorenzo?”
“Yes?”
“If you talk to Grandma Duca, don’t let the green lady bring the tea.”
Vivien laughed once, sharp and false.
“She’s three.”
I looked at the receipt again.
“Yes,” I said. “And apparently she has been paying attention.”
Vivien stepped closer. “This is how you want to begin our marriage? By humiliating me over a maid and a child?”
I folded the receipt and placed it inside my jacket.
“No, Vivien.”
I looked toward the north wing where my mother slept behind doors I had trusted other people to guard.
“This is how I find out whether there will be a marriage at all.”
Then my phone buzzed.
May you like
A message from my mother’s private nurse appeared on the screen.
DO NOT COME TO THE NORTH WING YET. SHE IS NOT ALONE.
