Chapter 3 - The Empty Box
I reached Mother's sitting room in under thirty seconds.
The window was open.
One drawer had been ripped from an antique writing desk. Papers covered the carpet. A porcelain lamp lay shattered beside the wall.
Leo moved to the window.
"Second-floor terrace. Whoever did this knew the exterior cameras are being serviced on the east side."
"Who knew about the maintenance?"
"Security. House management. Contractors."
"And family?"
His jaw tightened. "Anyone with access to the internal schedule."
Mother rolled in behind us with Clara.
"The box was there," Mother said, pointing to the desk.
I crouched beside the drawer.
"What was inside?"
"Letters from Rose. A photograph. And a copy of an old bank receipt."
Clara's eyes sharpened. "What receipt?"
Mother hesitated.
"A transfer. Two hundred thousand dollars. Sent to Rose twenty-eight years ago."
Clara's face changed.
"My mother never had that kind of money."
"Because she returned it."
"How do you know?"
"I have the second receipt."
I looked up. "Where?"
Mother's lips pressed together.
"Not here."
Good. At least one person in this house still understood the value of redundancy.
Leo examined the broken latch.
"No forced entry from the hall. The terrace door was opened from inside."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning whoever came in either works here or was already in the house."
Clara hugged herself.
"Maybe they heard you talking."
I looked at the tiny camera above the door.
"Pull the footage."
Leo's expression darkened.
"Already tried. The feed was disabled for eleven minutes."
Eleven minutes.
Not a random burglary.
A surgical one.
I turned to Clara. "Where is Rose's journal?"
"My apartment."
"Address?"
She stiffened. "Why?"
"Because if someone came for the letters, the journal is next."
Clara's phone rang.
She looked at the screen and froze.
"Who is it?" I asked.
"My landlord."
She answered.
"Hello?"
We watched the color drain from her face.
"What do you mean the door is open?"
A pause.
"No, don't touch anything. I'm coming."
I took the phone from her.
"You're not going alone."
"Give me that."
"Leo, get a car."
Clara snatched the phone back. "You don't get to take over my life because you found out we share DNA."
"I'm not taking over your life. I'm preventing someone from searching your apartment before we get there."
"Too late," she said.
Her voice cracked.
Twenty minutes later, we stood outside a narrow brick building in Queens.
The front door of Clara's apartment hung open.
Inside, cushions had been cut. Drawers emptied. Flour poured across the kitchen floor from a broken container. Her mother's framed picture lay face down.
Clara ran to the bedroom.
"No. No, no, no."
I followed.
She dropped to her knees beside a loose floorboard.
The hiding place beneath it was empty.
"The journal?" I asked.
She nodded.
Then Leo called from the living room.
"Mr. Hale. You need to see this."
A photograph had been placed upright on Clara's kitchen table.
It showed my father holding a baby.
May you like
On the back, someone had written four words in fresh black ink.
LET THE DEAD STAY DEAD.
