Jane Astor was crying profusely in front of me. The pain reflected in her moist and bloodshot eyes seemed too genuine. Either she was a spectacular actress or a helpless mother. I couldn’t decide which one it was without asking Desmond’s opinion. “Let’s suppose you’re telling the truth,” I started. “But you’re not locked anymore. There is an army of servants in the manor and regular visitors. Why did you never try to ask for help from anyone?” “I didn’t expect this ...