Chapter 5 - The House With Twelve Bedrooms
Graham drove himself home for the first time in months.
The house stood behind iron gates on a hill above the river. Twelve bedrooms, three kitchens, a pool no one used, and a dining room long enough to host a charity gala. The lights were on because the house manager had been told to keep them on, even when Graham was away.
He walked through the foyer and heard a television in the kitchen.
Martha, the housekeeper, looked up from a mug of tea. She had worked for the family since before Graham’s wedding. Her hair was almost entirely silver now.
“You’re home early,” she said.
“I need to ask you something about Elise.”
The mug stopped halfway to her mouth.
“What about her?”
“Did you ever believe she died?”
Martha looked toward the dark hallway. “I believed what I was told to believe.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“No,” she said softly. “It isn’t.”
Graham sat opposite her. “Did she leave something here?”
Martha’s eyes filled. “She left a letter. I hid it.”
“Where?”
“In the room you closed.”
He knew which room. Elise’s old studio at the back of the house. He had kept the door locked since the funeral because he could not bear to see her paints, her books, the half-finished canvas on the easel.
Martha brought him the key.
Dust covered everything. A yellow scarf hung over a chair. The canvas showed a field of wildflowers beneath a wide blue sky. Graham touched the edge of it and remembered Elise laughing at him for buying flowers without knowing their names.
Behind a loose floorboard, he found an envelope.
Graham,
If you are reading this, I was right to be afraid. Victor knows about the accounts. He says the company will collapse if the truth comes out. I don’t believe him. I think he has been moving money for years, and I think he used your signature.
Do not trust the accident report.
I am alive. I am sorry.
E.
A second page contained an address in Vermont and one sentence underlined twice:
Find the woman who kept the blue ledger.
Graham read it again.
The woman was Lucy.
His phone rang. Unknown number.
“Mr. Whitmore?” a man said. “This is Detective Ruiz. We found the person who attacked Lucy Hart.”
May you like
“Who?”
“Your security chief.”
