Jason’s gaze did not leave mine. “She’ll sign. People always do when they realize what can be taken from them.”
He left the room.
My father reached for me.
I stepped back.
“Claire—”
“Leave,” I said.
He looked as if I had slapped him.
Maybe I had.
With one word.
That afternoon, I went looking for Ethan’s mother.
Her portrait hung in the east study, a room Jason had specifically told me to avoid.
The door was locked.
Of course it was.
I found the key in the least likely place: Vivian’s hand.
She gave it to me without ceremony as we stood in the upstairs hall.
“You should know,” she said, “Ethan’s mother died when he was eighteen.”
I took the key. “How?”
Vivian’s mouth tightened. “Officially? Sleeping pills.”
“And unofficially?”
“She found out too much about this family.”
I stared at her.
Vivian looked away first.
The east study smelled of leather, dust, and secrets.
Ethan’s mother watched from above the fireplace. She had dark hair like his and a smile that looked almost real. Her painted hand rested over a pearl necklace, one finger pointing slightly downward.
I searched the mantel first.
Nothing.
Then the bookshelves.
Nothing.
The desk drawers were locked, but I found only old correspondence and company records.
I was about to give up when I looked again at the portrait.
Her finger did not point at the necklace.
It pointed beneath it.
I touched the lower edge of the frame. A small latch clicked.
The portrait swung forward.
Behind it was a wall safe.
My breath caught.
I tried Ethan’s birthday.
Nothing.
His mother’s death date.
Nothing.
Then I remembered the charity gala.
The night he had first heard my voice.
I entered the date printed on the program, one I only remembered because my mother had kept it taped to her hospital wall.
The safe opened.
Inside was a flash drive, a stack of medical records, and a small black notebook.
I reached for the notebook first.
The first page held Ethan’s handwriting.
If I don’t wake up, Jason wins.
I stopped breathing.
The next pages were worse.
Names. Dates. Payments. Private security reports. A mechanic who disappeared after servicing Ethan’s car. A doctor who altered toxicology results. A company board member found dead of a heart attack two weeks before a vote.
And then, near the end, a name I knew.
Daniel Whitmore.
My father.
Beside it was a number.
$750,000.
My knees nearly gave out.
Not debts.
Not bills.
