Chapter 2 - Adrian’s DeskCamille locked the children in nothing.
That was the first decision she made.
Instead, she brought Mason and Lila into the family room, sat them beside Rosa, and told them exactly what would happen.
“I’m calling Dr. Benton to check Mason.”
Mason immediately said:
“I’m fine.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
“Because scared people sometimes say they’re fine before they know whether they are.”
He frowned.
Then nodded.
“And Aunt Cordelia?”
“She is leaving the house.”
Lila looked frightened.
“Can she come back?”
“Not tonight.”
“Ever?”
Camille paused.
“That depends on what happened.”
She did not promise permanent exile.
She did not ask her children to forgive.
Facts first.
Rosa whispered:
“Mrs. Whitmore…”
Camille looked at her.
“I should have called sooner.”
“Called about what?”
Rosa glanced toward the hallway.
Cordelia had gone upstairs under the observation of the property security manager, Arthur Bell.
Camille had told him no one touched Cordelia, but no one allowed her near the children or Adrian’s office.
Rosa’s eyes filled.
“She has been different whenever you travel.”
Camille felt cold.
“How different?”
“Controlling.”
“What does that mean?”
“She sends staff away.”
“Why?”
“She says the children need discipline without people interfering.”
Camille sat slowly.
“How many times?”
“Three.”
Three trips.
Camille remembered them.
Dallas.
Boston.
San Francisco.
Short business travel.
Cordelia had volunteered to stay at the mansion every time.
Camille had called it sisterly help.
“What happened?”
Rosa struggled.
“Nothing like today.”
“Then what?”
“She took Mason’s phone once.”
Mason looked down.
Camille turned.
“When?”
“Last month.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
He shrugged.
“Aunt Cordelia said you were in the middle of negotiations.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“She said if I called you over everything, you would stop trusting me.”
Camille closed her eyes.
Cordelia had turned communication into a test of maturity.
“What else?”
Mason said:
“She locked Dad’s study.”
“It was already locked.”
“No.”
Camille frowned.
“I opened it sometimes.”
“With what?”
“Dad gave me the spare key.”
That surprised her.
Adrian had loved bringing Mason into the study.
Showing him old maps.
Explaining businesses badly enough to bore a twelve-year-old.
“When did Cordelia take it?”
“After Dad died.”
Camille stared.
“She said you wanted the room preserved.”
“I never said that.”
Mason looked angry now.
“I knew it.”
Lila whispered:
“She threw away Dad’s coffee cup.”
Camille looked at her.
“What?”
“The blue one.”
Camille remembered.
Adrian’s chipped navy mug.
Hideous.
He refused replacements.
Cordelia had told Camille it shattered in the dishwasher.
“Did you see her?”
Lila nodded.
“She put it in a black bag.”
Camille’s chest tightened.
Small thing.
Not criminal.
But another example of Cordelia deciding which pieces of Adrian remained.
Dr. Benton arrived.
He examined Mason privately with Camille present.
No serious physical injury.
Fear.
Tender shoulder.
Nothing requiring emergency treatment.
Camille felt relief.
Not absolution.
When the doctor left, she called her attorney, Martin Shaw.
Then she finally went to Adrian’s study.
The brass key felt heavy in her palm.
Mason stood beside her.
“You don’t have to come in.”
“I want to.”
“Okay.”
Lila stayed with Rosa.
Camille unlocked the study using her own house key.
The room smelled exactly the same.
Leather.
Cedar.
A faint trace of Adrian’s cologne that probably existed only in her memory.
The desk sat beneath the windows.
Mason pointed.
“Under there.”
Camille knelt.
A strip of tape remained beneath the center drawer.
No key.
Only residue.
“Where was the note?”
“Same place.”
“And you removed both today?”
“Yes.”
“Why today?”
Mason looked toward the shelves.
“Aunt Cordelia was in here yesterday.”
Camille stared.
“The door was locked.”
“She has another key.”
“How do you know?”
“I saw her.”
“When?”
“Last night.”
Camille had already been in Chicago—or so Cordelia believed.
Actually Camille had stayed one night near the airport because her morning meeting moved earlier.
Cordelia apparently used the opportunity.
“What was she doing?”
“Looking through Dad’s drawers.”
“Did she see you?”
“No.”
“I came back today.”
“Why?”
“I wanted to see what she was looking for.”
He found the taped key and note.
Then heard Cordelia entering.
He hid them beneath his shirt.
Cordelia saw disturbed dust beneath the desk.
Started questioning him.
The confrontation escalated.
“What did the note say exactly?”
Mason reached into his sock.
Camille stared.
“You hid it there?”
“I thought she’d search my pockets.”
Twelve years old.
Thinking like someone protecting evidence.
Camille hated that.
He unfolded the paper.
Adrian’s handwriting.
Short.
Mason—
If you ever find this before your mother does, take the key directly to her.
Do not give it to Aunt Cordelia, even if she says I changed my mind.
Tell your mother the number 417.
Love you, kid.
Dad.
Camille read it twice.
Mason whispered:
“What is 417?”
“I don’t know.”
But Cordelia did.
Because when Camille confronted her ten minutes later and said only:
“Four seventeen.”
Cordelia’s face lost every trace of color.
She whispered:
“Adrian told you?”
Camille answered:
“No.”
She held up the key.
“He told Mason.”
Cordelia backed into the wall.
And before Camille could ask another question, her sister said:
“You cannot open that box.”
Not drawer.
Not safe.
May you like
Box.
Cordelia knew exactly what the key opened.
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