Neither did I.

The investigation lasted eighteen months.

Caldwell Capital had concealed decades of fraudulent transfers.

Several former Anderson executives were charged.

Richard Anderson had been dead for five years, so no court could judge him.

Maxwell did that privately.

Some wounds are too complicated for verdicts.

The Anderson Foundation recovered millions.

Maxwell added twice that amount from his personal fortune.

Then he did something nobody expected.

He resigned as chairman.

Not permanently.

For one year.

When reporters asked why, he said:

“I recently discovered I spent most of my life inheriting answers to questions I never asked. I’d like time to ask them.”

I understood.

I had questions too.

Three months after the wedding that never happened, Maxwell and I returned to St. Catherine’s.

The school had changed.

New buildings.

New teachers.

Same stone chapel.

We found the old music room.

I sat at the piano.

Maxwell leaned against the wall.

“You really wrote eleven letters?”

“Yes.”

“What did they say?”

“The first few said I missed you.”

“And the others?”

“That you were a spoiled idiot.”

He smiled.

“Accurate.”

“One said I hoped your hair fell out.”

“That’s cruel.”

“You deserved it.”

He laughed.

Then became quiet.

“Why did you come back as a maid, Elle?”

I stared at the keys.

“Because nobody would have hired Elena Marlowe as an investigator.”

“You could have told me who you were.”

“I didn’t know if I could trust you.”

That hurt him.

I saw it.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“I thought you might have become like Richard.”

“And did I?”

I considered the man who had mocked a maid before a room full of wealthy guests.

Then the brother who had admitted his cruelty publicly the following morning.

“Sometimes.”

He winced.

“But not completely.”

“High praise.”

I smiled.

Then he asked, “Why didn’t Eleanor just tell us?”

“She was trying.”

“No. I mean before everything went wrong.”

I thought about that.

“Maybe adults always think they have more time.”

That answer stayed with us.

A year later, the Anderson estate ballroom looked different.

No wedding flowers.

No champagne tower.

No society reporters.

Instead, children filled the room.

Sixty-four of them.

Foster children.

Students from shelters.

Kids from families who could never afford private music lessons.

At the front of the ballroom stood music stands, cellos, violins, flutes, and a piano.

Above the fireplace, Eleanor’s portrait remained.

But beneath it was a new brass plaque.

THE ELEANOR MARLOWE-ANDERSON MUSIC FOUNDATION

Maxwell insisted my family name be included.

I argued.

He won.

For once.

The foundation provided instruments and lessons to children with no financial means.

St. Catherine’s received the first grant.

I became its artistic director.

Maxwell returned as chairman of the Anderson Foundation, though he was different afterward.

He listened more.

Spoke less.

And never again made a joke at the expense of someone who worked for him.

At least not around me.

I would have broken his nose again.

On opening night, Maxwell stood before the children.

“There is something you should know about this violin,” he said.