Chapter 2 - The Room Bernadette Said Was EmptyQuentin reached the mansion twenty-two minutes later.
He never remembered the drive.
Only the livestream.
Silas crying.
Emmett’s trembling voice.
Bernadette looking toward the East Room.
Two private security officers had arrived before him.
Quentin had called them from the elevator.
So had a Greenwich police officer after Quentin reported that an employee had struck his one-year-old son.
Bernadette stood in the foyer when Quentin entered.
Her handbag was beside her feet.
Her posture was straight.
Almost offended.
“Mr. Ashford.”
Quentin walked past her.
“Where are my sons?”
“Upstairs.”
“I wasn’t asking you.”
One security officer answered.
“Both are with Mrs. Ramirez.”
Maria Ramirez had worked as the family’s weekday housekeeper for six years.
Quentin trusted her.
At that moment, he trusted almost nobody else.
He went upstairs first.
Emmett opened his bedroom door only after Quentin identified himself.
Silas was on the carpet beside Maria.
The baby had stopped crying.
A faint pink mark remained on one cheek.
Oatmeal still clung to his hair.
Quentin’s chest tightened.
He picked Silas up.
The boy immediately pressed his face against his father’s neck.
Emmett stood nearby.
“Dad…”
Quentin knelt while holding the baby.
“You did exactly the right thing.”
“I turned the camera back on.”
“I know.”
“Bernadette said I wasn’t supposed to.”
“She was wrong.”
Emmett looked toward the hallway.
“Are you going to open the room?”
“Yes.”
The boy’s expression changed.
Not curiosity.
Fear.
Quentin noticed.
“What is it?”
Emmett looked at Maria.
Then back at his father.
“I don’t like that room.”
“Why?”
“Because Mom didn’t either.”
Quentin felt his stomach tighten.
Nora had never mentioned the East Room to him.
At least not that he remembered.
“When did Mom talk about it?”
Emmett shrugged.
“Before she died.”
Quentin did not push.
Not now.
He kissed his son’s forehead.
“Stay with Maria.”
Downstairs, the officer had Bernadette seated in the library.
She had already contacted an attorney.
Quentin didn’t care.
“Key.”
Bernadette looked at him.
“I told you, I don’t have one.”
Quentin held out his hand.
“Key.”
“This entire situation is being exaggerated.”
“You struck Silas.”
“He was throwing food.”
“He is one.”
“He understands more than you think.”
Quentin stared at her.
“I hope your lawyer tells you to stop talking.”
Bernadette’s mouth tightened.
He turned toward the security team.
“Get a locksmith.”
Bernadette stood.
“You cannot open that room.”
Every person in the library became still.
Quentin turned back.
“Why?”
“It contains property belonging to your father.”
“My father has been dead for four years.”
“He wanted it protected.”
“From me?”
Bernadette said nothing.
The locksmith arrived thirty minutes later.
Bernadette watched from the hallway.
Police remained.
Quentin stood beside the door.
The lock was more sophisticated than he expected.
Not an old bedroom lock.
Electronic hardware hidden beneath decorative brass.
“Recently installed,” the locksmith said.
“How recently?”
“Hard to say. Few years.”
Quentin looked at Bernadette.
She stared straight ahead.
The lock clicked.
The door opened.
Quentin expected boxes.
Furniture.
Dust.
Instead, lights turned on automatically.
He stopped.
The East Room had been converted into an office.
A desk.
Two computer monitors.
A filing cabinet.
Shelves filled with binders.
A small printer.
A lockbox.
And on the wall—
four security screens displaying different areas of Quentin’s house.
The nursery.
Kitchen.
Rear staircase.
Breakfast room.
The same room where Bernadette had hit Silas.
Quentin walked inside slowly.
“This isn’t storage.”
Bernadette didn’t answer.
One monitor displayed the home-security administrative dashboard.
Quentin recognized it.
Someone had access at a level even he rarely used.
A list of cameras appeared.
Beside several:
MANUAL DISABLE HISTORY.
He clicked.
Dozens of entries.
Kitchen camera disabled.
Nursery hallway disabled.
Rear stairwell disabled.
Master corridor disabled.
Dates.
Times.
Years.
Quentin felt cold.
“You’ve been turning cameras off for years.”
Bernadette said:
“Your father gave me access.”
“Four years ago.”
No answer.
He opened the nearest binder.
EMMETT ASHFORD.
Inside were school reports.
Medical records.
Photographs.
Notes.
Some ordinary.
Some not.
EMMETT CRIES WHEN QUESTIONED ABOUT NORA.
EMMETT STILL REMEMBERS BACK STAIRS.
EMMETT ASKED QUENTIN ABOUT CAMERA OUTAGE — REDIRECTED.
Quentin’s mouth went dry.
He opened another binder.
SILAS ASHFORD.
Hospital discharge records.
Pediatric appointment summaries.
Copies of his birth certificate.
A photograph taken while Silas slept.
Quentin’s hands started shaking.
Another folder:
QUENTIN — TRAVEL.
His flights.
Board meetings.
Overnight trips.
Every period when he had been away from the mansion.
The police officer stepped closer.
“Mr. Ashford, I’d stop touching things.”
Quentin nodded.
Evidence.
Of what, he didn’t yet know.
Then he saw a cream envelope beneath a stack of files.
The handwriting on the front made the room disappear.
QUENTIN.
Nora’s handwriting.
He knew every curve.
Every letter.
He reached for it, then stopped before touching it.
“How did you get that?”
Bernadette looked away.
Quentin’s voice cracked.
“That is my wife’s handwriting.”
Silence.
“She died eleven months ago.”
Bernadette’s expression remained controlled.
Quentin pointed toward the envelope.
“Was that letter ever sent to me?”
Nothing.
Another envelope lay underneath.
And another.
All addressed to Quentin.
All unopened.
Police photographed them before allowing him to handle one using gloves.
The first was dated thirteen months earlier.
Two months before Nora died.
Quentin opened it.
Only three lines appeared on the first page.
Quentin,
If Bernadette tells you I’m becoming paranoid, please remember that I am writing this before she gets the chance.
Something is happening inside this house when you’re gone.
Quentin stopped reading.
The officer asked:
“You okay?”
“No.”
He turned the page.
Nora’s next sentence made his knees feel weak.
I think someone has been using the security system to watch me, and I think Bernadette is helping him.
Quentin slowly turned toward Bernadette.
“Helping who?”
She didn’t answer.
Then a phone began vibrating.
Not Quentin’s.
A burner phone lay inside the open drawer of the East Room desk.
The screen illuminated.
One message.
B:
DID HE OPEN THE ROOM?
Quentin stared.
Another appeared.
IF HE DID, GET NORA’S PHONE BEFORE HE FINDS IT.
Quentin looked around the room.
Nora’s phone had supposedly been destroyed the night she died.
He had been told emergency crews could not recover it.
May you like
Now somebody believed it was inside his house.
And Bernadette had spent eleven months making sure Quentin never opened the door.
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