THE FOURTH NAME

The first thing Vivienne Hartwell noticed about home was that Alexander Blackwood had apparently been promoted from childhood nuisance to gatekeeper.

He stood beside a black Mercedes just beyond the iron gates of Hartwell House, checking his watch with the expression of a man personally offended by the concept of traffic.

Vivienne lowered her car window.

“Tell me you're not here to arrest me.”

Alexander glanced up. “You're forty minutes late.”

“Hello to you too.”

“I called twice.”

“My phone was on silent.”

“Of course it was.”

She studied him, taking in the dark shirt rolled neatly at his forearms, the expensive watch, and the familiar expression that suggested the entire world would function better if people simply did what he expected.

He had always been handsome in an irritating sort of way. Back then, she'd been too busy arguing with him to notice much else.

Apparently, adulthood had introduced a new problem.

“You could have sent someone to collect me,” she said.

“I did.”

Vivienne looked pointedly at him. “You were the person you sent?”

“Efficient, isn't it?”

A laugh escaped her before she could stop it.

His expression shifted. It was subtle, but she caught it—the faint loosening around his eyes, the way his attention settled on her for a second longer than necessary.

“Welcome home, Vivienne.”

Something about the words caught her off guard.

She'd imagined this reunion during the flight. In her version, she'd been effortlessly composed, Alexander had been considerably less annoying, and neither of them had looked at the other as though they were trying to reconcile an old memory with a new person.

She recovered first.

“You look expensive.”

He glanced down at himself. “Thank you.”

“That wasn't a compliment.”

“I decided to accept it as one.”

She shook her head, smiling despite herself.

He opened the gate for her.

As she drove past, she caught him watching her through the open window. Their eyes met briefly before she turned towards the house.

It was only a glance.

It shouldn't have made her wonder what else had changed between them.

She blamed the flight.

---

Mrs. Bell was waiting at the front entrance.

The moment Vivienne stepped out of the car, the older woman hurried forward and pulled her into an embrace that smelled of lavender and lemon soap.

“My goodness! Look at you!”

“I was beginning to think you'd forgotten me.”

Mrs. Bell drew back to inspect her face. “Forgotten you? I practically raised you. Do you think a few years abroad have made me lose my mind?”

“I was hoping for a more emotional welcome.”

“Then you should have arrived on time.”

Vivienne burst out laughing.

Mrs. Bell took her hand and led her inside, firing questions at a speed that made answering any of them impossible. Had she eaten? Was she tired? Had she brought enough clothes? Was she planning to stay longer than a few weeks this time?

That last question made Vivienne pause.

“I'm home now,” she answered.

Mrs. Bell squeezed her fingers. “Good. Your father will be pleased to hear that.”

Something in her tone made Vivienne glance towards the staircase.

“Is Dad all right?”

“Of course.”

“You answered rather quickly.”

“Because I know your father.”

“And I know you. You're avoiding the question.”

Mrs. Bell gave her a fond look. “You've been home for less than five minutes, and already you're looking for trouble.”

“Trouble has a habit of finding me.”

“Then try not to invite it to dinner.”

Vivienne laughed again.

The house looked much as she remembered it. The chandelier still glittered above the polished staircase, the sitting room still held the piano she'd never learned to play properly, and the familiar scent of flowers lingered in the hall.

She'd missed this place more than she'd admitted to herself.

Mrs. Bell showed her the changes to her bedroom, including new curtains and furniture her father had apparently selected without consulting her.

“He could have asked what I wanted.”

“Your father believes questions are unnecessary when he can pay someone to make a decision.”

“That sounds painfully accurate.”

When Mrs. Bell finally left her to unpack, Vivienne wandered towards the balcony.

The garden spread beneath her, green and carefully maintained. Beyond the rose bushes stood the old oak tree where she'd spent countless afternoons with the Blackwood twins.

A memory surfaced: Adrian climbing too high, Alexander insisting the branch wouldn't break, and Vivienne threatening to tell both their mothers when it inevitably did.

She smiled.

Those had been simpler days.

Then she remembered another laugh.

A girl's laugh.

The smile faded.

For a moment, she could almost hear it coming from somewhere near the oak tree. She turned towards the garden, but there was no one there.

Perhaps the journey had exhausted her more than she'd realised.

She returned to unpacking.

---

Adrian arrived shortly before dinner carrying flowers for Mrs. Bell and a box of chocolates for Vivienne.

“You brought me chocolates?” she asked when he appeared in her doorway.

He looked offended. “What sort of person do you think I am?”

“I've known you since childhood. I have an extensive list.”

“I'm handsome, charming, generous—”

“Two of those are debatable.”

He placed a hand over his heart. “And here I was, planning to give you the good chocolates.”

“Keep talking. I'll survive on spite.”

His grin widened.

Then he pulled her into a hug.

It was warm and familiar, and for a moment Vivienne was back in the garden, laughing at something Adrian had said while Alexander pretended not to listen.

But when Adrian drew back, he didn't immediately return to his usual teasing.

“I've missed you,” he said.

The simplicity of it surprised her.

“I've missed you too.”

“No, I mean it.” His smile softened. “The house hasn't been the same without you. Family dinners became painfully sensible. Alexander started arriving on time for everything, which was frankly disturbing.”

From the doorway behind him, Alexander said, “I'm standing right here.”

“Unfortunately,” Adrian replied.

Vivienne laughed.

Adrian looked pleased with himself, but his attention returned to her.

“So, tell me. Are you staying, or should I prepare for another dramatic departure?”

“I'm staying.”

“For how long?”

“Long enough to decide whether I can tolerate either of you.”

“Excellent. I'll make an effort to be tolerable.”

“Don't overexert yourself.”

He offered her his arm, and she accepted it as they headed downstairs.

At the foot of the staircase, Adrian slowed.

“There's something I've wanted to ask you,” he said.

“What?”

“Were you happy away from here?”

The question was so different from his usual teasing that she turned to look at him properly.

“Sometimes,” she admitted. “Other times, I missed home. I just didn't always know what I was missing.”

He considered that.

“Maybe you needed to come back to find out.”

“That's surprisingly thoughtful of you.”

“Don't spread it around. I have a reputation.”

She smiled, but she found herself thinking about his question long after they entered the dining room.

Perhaps he was right.

Perhaps she'd come home for more than her father's sake.

---

Dinner was interrupted by Alexander's arrival, though Adrian insisted he had been the only interesting person at the table until then.

Their father was away meeting a business associate, which left the three of them to eat without the formalities Richard usually insisted upon.

For the first time that evening, Vivienne relaxed.

Adrian told stories about their childhood, exaggerating his own achievements and conveniently forgetting the occasions when Alexander had rescued him from the consequences.

Alexander corrected every detail.

Vivienne found herself laughing so hard that she nearly spilled her drink.

“You two haven't changed at all,” she said.

“I'm considerably more mature,” Adrian protested.

“You tried to convince me yesterday that you could beat a professional tennis player.”

“I could.”

“You lost to a twelve-year-old last month,” Alexander said.

“That child was unusually talented.”

“He was the club instructor's son.”

“Exactly. Excellent training.”

Vivienne shook her head, laughing.

Alexander watched her for a moment.

“What?” she asked when she caught him.

“Nothing.”

“That's usually what people say when they're thinking something insulting.”

“I was thinking that it's good to hear you laugh again.”

The words landed more softly than she expected.

Adrian's expression changed, too. His teasing faded, leaving something more thoughtful behind.

Vivienne looked between them.

“Well, this is uncomfortable. Have you both been replaced by polite strangers?”

“Give it time,” Adrian said. “We'll disappoint you eventually.”

Alexander reached for the serving dish and placed it closer to her.

“You haven't eaten much.”

She glanced at her plate, then at him.

“I didn't realise you were monitoring my dinner.”

“Someone has to make sure you don't survive entirely on sarcasm.”

“It's worked for years.”

“Not convincingly.”

She rolled her eyes, but she took another helping.

Across the table, Adrian watched the exchange with a small, unreadable smile before turning his attention to her.

“Tomorrow, I'm taking you somewhere.”

“Where?”

“That's a surprise.”

“I don't like surprises.”

“You used to love them.”

“I used to believe you when you said you had a surprise for me and then produced a frog.”

“It was a very good frog.”

“It jumped into my hair.”

“And you screamed so loudly that Alexander fell into the pond.”

Alexander looked up. “I remember that differently.”

“Of course you do. You were underwater.”

For the next several minutes, the conversation wandered between old stories and new plans. Adrian wanted to show her the city she'd missed. Alexander suggested a quieter alternative, pointing out that Adrian's idea of a relaxing afternoon usually involved unnecessary crowds and expensive restaurants.

They disagreed until Vivienne raised her hand.

“I'm touched that you've both decided to organise my life before I've unpacked, but I can choose my own plans.”

Adrian bowed his head. “Naturally.”

Alexander nodded. “Your decision.”

“Good.”

“Although,” Adrian added, “if you choose to spend the afternoon with me, I'll consider it an excellent decision.”

“And if I choose Alexander?”

“I'll assume you've been blackmailed.”

Alexander's mouth twitched.

Vivienne looked between them, suddenly amused by the prospect of having both men competing for her attention, even if neither had said anything that could reasonably be called an invitation.

They were her oldest friends.

That was all.

She reminded herself of this as she caught Alexander looking at her again.

She wasn't entirely convinced.

---

Richard's welcome-home reception began an hour later.

He had described it as a small gathering. Vivienne counted thirty-seven guests before deciding her father's definition of small required investigation.

“You didn't have to do all this,” she told him as he adjusted the bracelet on her wrist.

“I wanted to celebrate your return.”

“With half the business community?”

“Thirty-six people. The caterer doesn't count.”

She laughed, and her father smiled.

Then his expression shifted.

“Are you happy to be home?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“And you intend to stay?”

“Dad, I just arrived.”

“I'm asking a simple question.”

“So am I. Why does my answer matter so much?”

For a moment, he looked as though he might tell her something important.

Instead, he kissed her forehead.

“Enjoy your evening, sweetheart.”

He moved away before she could question him further.

Across the room, Alexander was speaking to an older man Vivienne vaguely recognised. The stranger glanced in her direction.

His expression changed.

It wasn't quite surprise. It was closer to alarm.

Vivienne began walking towards them, but the man murmured something to Alexander and disappeared into the crowd.

Alexander watched him leave.

Then he looked directly at her.

She raised an eyebrow.

He gave her a small shake of his head.

Oh, absolutely not.

She found her father near the staircase.

“Who's the man who was speaking to Alexander?”

“An old acquaintance.”

“One of yours?”

“Yes.”

“Then why did he look as though he'd seen a ghost when he noticed me?”

Richard's fingers tightened around his glass.

“You're imagining things.”

“That would be more convincing if you weren't trying to crush your drink.”

He glanced down and loosened his grip.

“Vivienne, please. It's your first evening home. Don't turn it into an investigation.”

“Then stop giving me reasons to investigate.”

For a moment, the tiredness in his eyes was unmistakable.

“I want you to enjoy being home,” he said quietly.

“And I want you to answer a question without making me feel as though I've stumbled into a private meeting.”

He had no answer.

Someone called his name, and he excused himself.

Vivienne watched him leave, her curiosity sharpening.

She had expected awkward reunions. She hadn't expected her father and Alexander to exchange silent warnings with strangers.

Whatever was happening, neither seemed willing to include her.

That was a mistake.

---

Later, she escaped to the balcony outside the upper sitting room.

The garden lay beneath the moonlight, the fountain reflecting broken silver patterns across the water. Beyond the rose bushes stood the old oak tree.

Vivienne rested her hands on the railing.

“Escaping your own party?”

Alexander's voice came from the doorway.

“I'm taking a break from people who think asking questions is a character flaw.”

“Then you've chosen the wrong house.”

He joined her, leaving a comfortable distance between them.

For a while, neither spoke.

It was surprisingly easy to stand beside him without needing to fill the silence. Vivienne had forgotten that about Alexander. Even as children, he had never demanded that she entertain him.

He simply stayed.

“You seem different,” she said eventually.

“So do you.”

“That's not an answer.”

“It's the one I've got.”

She turned towards him. “Do you ever say anything without making it difficult?”

“Occasionally.”

“I'm sure it's a memorable occasion.”

His quiet laugh caught her by surprise.

She had expected the familiar smirk, not that brief, unguarded sound.

“You've become harder to read,” he said.

“Perhaps you never read me very well.”

“Perhaps.”

His gaze held hers for a moment longer than necessary.

Vivienne became aware of the distance between them, and of the fact that she had been studying his face rather than the garden.

She looked away first.

“So,” she said, recovering her composure, “are you going to tell me why that man looked frightened of me?”

“No.”

“Wonderful conversation.”

“Vivienne.”

Something in his voice made her turn back.

He wasn't smiling now.

“What is it?” she asked.

Instead of answering, he looked towards the oak tree.

“Do you remember playing there when we were children?”

“Obviously.”

“Do you remember who else used to play with us?”

The question struck a nerve she hadn't realised was exposed.

“A girl,” she said slowly. “I think there was a girl.”

Alexander went still.

The reaction was small, but unmistakable.

“You remember her?”

“I remember that she existed. I can't remember her name or her face clearly.” Vivienne studied him. “You know something.”

He looked back at her.

For once, he didn't offer a clever answer.

“I remember more than I can explain.”

“Then explain it.”

“Not tonight.”

“Why does everyone keep saying that to me?”

“Because you're asking questions before you know what the answers might cost you.”

She stared at him.

“That's a very dramatic way to avoid a conversation.”

“I know.”

At least he had the decency to sound uncomfortable.

She studied him, searching for the boy who had once carried her home after she'd scraped her knee and refused to let anyone see her cry. He was still there, somewhere beneath the expensive clothes and carefully controlled expression.

But she no longer knew what he would do with the things he remembered.

“Goodnight, Alexander.”

He seemed surprised by her decision to leave.

“Goodnight, Vivienne.”

She walked past him, refusing to look back.

She made it halfway down the corridor before she heard him call her name.

She turned.

“I'm glad you're home,” he said.

There was no teasing in his voice this time.

For a moment, she forgot every question she had meant to ask.

“I'm glad to be home,” she replied.

Then she continued towards her bedroom, wondering why those five words from Alexander had stayed with her longer than anything else he'd said that evening.

---

Sleep refused to come.

A little after midnight, Vivienne began unpacking the last of her boxes. She found old notebooks, birthday cards, and photographs she hadn't looked at in years.

One slipped from the back of a frame.

She caught it before it reached the floor.

Four children stood beside the garden fountain, squinting into the sunlight.

Vivienne recognised herself immediately, her hair tied into two uneven ponytails. Adrian stood beside her, grinning at the camera. Alexander was on her other side, looking as though the photographer had interrupted something important.

Between Vivienne and Alexander stood a girl.

She was smiling.

Vivienne stared at the picture.

The girl had been real. This wasn't an invented memory or a strange dream. She had been there, with them.

She had belonged with them.

Yet Vivienne couldn't remember her name.

She turned the photograph over.

The strip along the bottom had been cut away, removing what appeared to have been a handwritten note. Whoever had done it had taken care to leave the image intact.

Someone had wanted the children to remain visible.

But not identifiable.

Her phone vibrated on the bed.

An unknown number.

Welcome home, Vivienne.

She frowned and typed a reply.

Who is this?

Another message appeared.

Have you remembered the fourth name yet?

Her fingers went cold around the phone.

She looked from the screen to the photograph.

The sender knew about the girl.

More unsettlingly, they knew Vivienne had forgotten her.

She tried calling the number, but the call failed. When she returned to her messages, the conversation had vanished.

She checked again.

Nothing.

Vivienne sat on the edge of her bed, the photograph resting in her lap.

She had spent years believing that returning home would mean picking up where she had left off. Reconnecting with her father. Seeing her oldest friends. Discovering how much had changed while she was away.

Instead, she'd found a girl whose existence seemed to have slipped out of everyone's conversations.

A father who refused to answer simple questions.

And two men who remembered something they weren't ready to tell her.

She studied the girl's smile once more.

Tomorrow, she would ask Adrian what he remembered.

Alexander might refuse to answer her, but Adrian had never been particularly good at keeping things to himself.

At least, not when it came to her.

Vivienne placed the photograph on her bedside table and reached for her phone.

Whoever had sent that message had made one mistake.

They had assumed that forgetting a name meant forgetting the person.

It didn't.

And Vivienne Hartwell had never been good at leaving unanswered questions alone.