Chapter 1 - The One Thing Beatrice Feared More Than MargaretTheo had stopped asking Beatrice to let him go.
That frightened Nora more than his shouting had.
The twelve-year-old boy lay twisted against the cushions of the enormous cream-colored sofa in the middle of the Pasadena mansion’s entrance hall. Beatrice Ward had one forearm pressed across his upper chest and shoulder, using her weight to keep him from getting up.
She was not choking him.
She did not need to.
Theo had already learned that struggling only made her angrier.
“Stop moving,” Beatrice snapped.
“You’re hurting him!” Nora cried.
The nine-year-old girl knelt beside the sofa, tears streaming down her face.
Luis Ortega stood several feet away, his gardening gloves still tucked into the back pocket of his jeans.
“Ms. Ward, please,” he said. “Let the boy stand up.”
Beatrice didn't even look at him.
“You work in the garden, Luis. Go back to the garden.”
“He didn't do anything.”
“He stole from me.”
Theo's face twisted.
“I DIDN'T!”
Beatrice pushed him harder into the cushion.
“Don't raise your voice.”
“You put it in my backpack!”
Nora sobbed.
“I saw her!”
Beatrice finally turned toward the little girl.
That cold stare made Nora shrink back.
“You saw nothing.”
“I saw you!”
“You're nine.”
“So?”
“So adults decide what happened.”
Luis took one step forward.
“That's enough.”
Beatrice looked at him.
“You want to lose your job?”
Luis stopped.
He had a wife.
A mortgage.
A daughter at Pasadena City College.
Beatrice knew all of that.
She knew everybody's pressure point.
Then she leaned closer to Theo.
“Your mother isn't here.”
Theo glared at her.
“She'll come back.”
“Will she?”
His confidence flickered.
Beatrice smiled.
“That is what you keep telling yourself.”
Nora cried,
“Grandma Margaret knows!”
Beatrice laughed.
“No, she doesn't.”
Theo's breathing quickened.
“She'll find out.”
“Your grandmother is in Santa Barbara.”
Beatrice lowered her voice.
“She has no idea what happens inside this house.”
Something hit the marble floor behind her.
CLOP.
Everyone froze.
Beatrice turned.
A black leather handbag lay near the front doors.
Margaret Avery stood at the end of the entrance hall.
Seventy years old.
Silver hair.
Straight-backed.
Still wearing the navy traveling coat she had driven in.
Her face was white.
Not with weakness.
With fury.
“Now I do.”
Nora screamed,
“GRANDMA!”
Beatrice released Theo immediately.
He rolled away from her and sat up.
Margaret crossed the room faster than anyone expected.
She pulled Nora against one side of her body and Theo against the other.
Then she looked at Luis.
“Did you see this?”
Luis nodded.
“All of it.”
Beatrice stood.
“This is not what it looks like.”
Margaret turned toward her.
“What does it look like?”
“Theo became violent.”
Theo shouted,
“No!”
Margaret raised one hand.
Not at Theo.
At Beatrice.
“Don't.”
The single word shut down the room.
Beatrice straightened her blouse.
“He went through my things.”
Margaret looked at Theo.
“Did you?”
Theo wiped his face.
“No.”
“What did she say you took?”
“A key.”
Beatrice answered quickly.
“A work key.”
“From where?”
“My bag.”
Margaret glanced around.
At first she seemed focused only on the children.
Then her eyes dropped toward the low walnut table beside the sofa.
A tan leather work bag sat underneath it.
Beatrice's bag.
The top was partly open.
Something blue showed between two folders.
Margaret stopped.
Beatrice saw where she was looking.
And her expression changed.
Not anger.
Fear.
Real fear.
Margaret noticed.
So did Theo.
The boy whispered,
“Grandma…”
Margaret slowly released the children.
She moved toward the table.
Beatrice stepped between them.
“Don't touch that.”
Margaret stopped.
“Why?”
“It contains private client documents.”
“You don't have clients.”
Beatrice's mouth tightened.
She had moved into the mansion six months earlier after Claire Avery—Theo and Nora's mother—asked for temporary help following her husband Nathan's death.
Beatrice had been Nathan's older sister.
Family.
Or so everyone had believed.
Margaret pointed toward the bag.
“Move.”
“No.”
That answer changed the room.
Margaret's eyes narrowed.
“You had my grandson pinned to a sofa.”
“He attacked me.”
“I have two witnesses saying otherwise.”
“Theo is unstable.”
Theo flinched.
Margaret heard it.
She turned to him.
“Who told you that?”
Theo stared at Beatrice.
Margaret looked back.
Beatrice's face hardened.
“Claire has been struggling for months. The children are acting out. Somebody has to maintain order.”
Margaret stepped closer.
“Where is my daughter?”
Beatrice blinked.
“Claire is away.”
“I know what you told me.”
“She needed time.”
“Where?”
Silence.
Margaret's voice dropped.
“Where is Claire?”
Beatrice reached for the bag.
Margaret grabbed it first.
Beatrice lunged.
Luis stepped between them.
“Don't.”
Beatrice stared at him.
Margaret opened the bag.
The first folder contained invoices.
The second held bank statements.
Then she saw the blue folder.
On the front:
TEMPORARY GUARDIANSHIP — THEODORE AVERY / NORA AVERY
Margaret's hands went cold.
She opened it.
Her own signature appeared on page four.
Except Margaret had never signed it.
A notarized statement claimed Margaret Avery was suffering from “progressive cognitive impairment” and voluntarily supported transferring custody of Theo and Nora to Beatrice.
“What is this?”
Beatrice said nothing.
Theo moved closer.
Margaret turned another page.
Two passport applications.
Theo.
Nora.
Emergency travel authorization.
Destination:
Geneva, Switzerland.
Departure date:
Friday.
Two days away.
Nora whispered,
“Why are we going to Switzerland?”
Margaret looked at Beatrice.
Beatrice's face had lost all color.
Then something slipped from inside the folder.
A plastic hospital wristband.
Margaret picked it up.
Her breath stopped.
Printed on it:
CLAIRE AVERY
ROSEMONT BEHAVIORAL HEALTH CENTER
Admission date:
Seventeen days earlier.
Margaret stared.
Beatrice had told everyone Claire was away at a private wellness retreat after becoming overwhelmed by grief.
She hadn't said psychiatric facility.
She hadn't said Claire had been admitted under emergency supervision.
Margaret looked at the children.
Then at Beatrice.
“You told me my daughter went away voluntarily.”
Beatrice backed toward the staircase.
Margaret held up the wristband.
“Why do you have this?”
“I can explain.”
“Then explain.”
Beatrice's eyes shifted toward the front door.
Luis saw it.
“Don't run.”
She didn't.
Instead, she whispered something that frightened Margaret more.
“You shouldn't have come back today.”
Margaret stared.
“Why?”
Beatrice looked toward the work bag.
Not the passport applications.
Not the forged guardianship papers.
Something deeper inside it.
“Because now,” she said, “you're going to make the same mistake Claire did.”
And before Margaret could ask what that meant, a phone hidden inside Beatrice's bag began to ring.
The screen lit up.
One name appeared.
GRANT MERCER.
Margaret knew that name.
Nathan's former business partner.
The man who controlled millions of dollars connected to her grandchildren's inheritance.
May you like
And according to the message flashing beneath his name—
he already knew Margaret had arrived.
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