The Mafia Boss Thought A Maid’s Daughter Was Just A Poor Child — Until Her Old Doll Exposed The Crime That Haunted Him For Years.

PART 3

Near the end of October, Weston came home early and heard Priya speaking on the kitchen phone.

“Mr. Collins, please. I can pay part of it Friday.”

A man’s voice answered loudly. “I’ve heard that for two months.”

“My daughter is four.”

“Then you should’ve thought about that before falling behind.”

The call ended. Weston looked through the narrow opening of the kitchen door. Priya sat at the table with her hands covering her face. Wren slept on a padded bench, her rag doll beneath her chin.

He backed away without entering.

At six the next morning, standing beside an upstairs window, he noticed a tiny figure crossing the wet lawn. Wren wore the red sweater and no coat, carrying a dented metal cup.

She approached the eastern garden — the giant garden, where Odalys had planted sunflowers every spring. Nadia had called it that because the flowers grew above her head. After the funeral, Weston locked the gate. The plants died.

Wren pushed against the rusted gate, and it opened.

The next morning, she returned. And the next. On the fourth morning, Weston hid behind the ivy-covered stone wall.

Wren entered at exactly six. She placed her rag doll beside her, removed a worn photograph from her pocket, and leaned it against a rock.

“Good morning, Daddy,” she whispered. “I’m trying to grow a sunflower for you. Mommy says they always look for the light.” She patted the wet soil. “Mommy cried again last night. She thought I was sleeping.”

Weston pressed one hand against the wall.

“I’m being extra good so she doesn’t have to worry about me. I didn’t ask for ice cream because money is having a hard time.”

“I miss you. But Mommy says you can see us from the stars. I think something good will happen soon. Mommy says good things find people who keep being kind.”

Weston closed his eyes and remained behind the wall until long after Wren had gone.