Part 6
“What happened?”
“The director claimed Ward had threatened to go public and demanded money. Keene pressured two witnesses to change their accounts of the fall.”
“On your orders?”
“No.”
“Did you know?”
“Not until Adrian found the payments.”
“And then?”
“I fired Keene.”
“You paid him.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because he had records that could make it appear Celia ordered the substitution and the cover-up.”
Celia backed into the reading table. The champagne glass trembled but did not fall.
“You said the settlement was about employment claims.”
“I lied.”
“For me?”
“For the company.”
She stared at him.
Gideon’s voice remained cold, but something beneath it had begun to fracture.
“If the records became public, North River would have collapsed. The lenders would have seized three properties. Thousands of people would have lost work. The foundation would have been pulled into the investigation. Your signature would have been treated as intent whether you understood the document or not.”
“You let me believe Adrian was imagining things.”
“I tried to keep him away from it.”
“You told me his medication made him paranoid.”
“He was paranoid.”
“He was right.”
“Those are not opposites.”
Sloane closed her eyes.
Her brother had been difficult in the final year of his life. He called at odd hours, accused executives of following him, changed passwords twice a week, and once insisted that Sloane remove the battery from her phone before they ate lunch.
She had become impatient.
She had told him he needed help.
He had asked whether help meant becoming easier for the family to manage.
She had not answered.
Now his fear occupied the library more completely than his portrait ever had.
“What was in the sealed envelope?” Gideon asked.
Sloane opened her eyes.
“I told you.”
“You told me about the letter. What else?”
She looked at the bandage.
Celia saw the movement.
“Sloane,” she whispered.
The white wrapping had loosened near her thumb. Beneath one fold, barely visible, was the edge of a transparent plastic sleeve.
Gideon did not move closer.
“What is it?”
“A memory card.”
Celia covered her mouth again.
Sloane had found it taped inside the envelope beneath Adrian’s letter. When she heard the library door open behind her, she had slipped it under the bandage. The sharp edge had pressed into the cut on her palm while the man searched her. The dark red stain had spread, but the card remained hidden.
“He searched the envelope,” she said. “He saw the letter. He knew there had been something else inside.”
“What’s on the card?” Gideon asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Did Adrian say?”
“He wrote that it contained the only record Keene couldn’t buy back.”
Celia stepped forward. “Give it to your father.”
“No.”
“Sloane, please.”
“No.”
Gideon’s gaze stayed on the bandage.
“She shouldn’t give it to either of us.”
Celia looked at him. “You can secure it.”
“In a house where every security system has failed?”
“We cannot leave it on her.”
“We are not removing that bandage until she is somewhere safe.”
Sloane gave a weak laugh. It hurt enough that she stopped.
“You finally agree on something.”
Neither parent responded.
Cold air moved through the partially open front door. The lamps nearest the foyer flickered once, then steadied.
Gideon looked toward the garden.
“Where are the guests?”
Celia listened.
The conservatory stood less than a hundred yards away. Even with the mansion doors closed, music and conversation usually carried across the lawn. Now there was nothing.
“Perhaps they were moved inside the pavilion,” she said.
“By whom?”
“The event staff.”
“Without asking either of us?”
“My phone was not working.”
“Neither was mine.”
Sloane said, “Maybe the phones were disabled so no one could warn you.”
“Warn us about what?” Celia asked.
“The house.”
Gideon walked to the entrance and looked into the garden without stepping outside.
The gravel drive curved beyond a row of bare hedges. Low path lights marked the route toward the conservatory, but several had gone dark. The distant glass building still glowed amber through the trees. No figures moved inside it.
He drew the open door closer, narrowing the gap.
“Did you hear a vehicle when you entered?” Sloane asked.
“No.”
“Did you see one near the west terrace?”
“No.”
“Keene came in a black sedan,” Celia said.
Gideon looked at her.
“I saw it from the reception entrance.”
“What make?”
“I don’t know.”
“Driver?”
“I couldn’t see.”
“Did the car remain?”
“I didn’t watch it.”
“You invited a man you feared and failed to notice whether he left.”
“I was trying not to look as though I had invited him.”
Gideon pressed his lips together.
Sloane leaned her head back against the cabinet. The wood felt warmer now. She wondered if her skin had cooled.
“Talk to me,” Gideon said.
“I am.”
“No, keep talking. Don’t close your eyes.”
“I’m tired.”
“I know.”
“You never know when you say that.”
His face tightened.
Celia moved to the floor beside Sloane, lowering herself with difficulty in the narrow gown. She did not touch her daughter. She sat close enough that their shoulders almost met.
“What do you need?” she asked.
“A different family.”
Celia looked down.
Sloane regretted the sentence immediately and resented herself for regretting it.
Her mother smoothed the burgundy fabric across her knees. The gesture was automatic and useless.
“When you were six,” Celia said, “you hid beneath this desk during Adrian’s piano lessons.”
Gideon looked at her sharply. “This is not the time.”
“She needs to stay awake.”
“She needs facts, not childhood.”
Sloane said, “I hid because Adrian played the same eight measures for an hour.”
Celia’s mouth moved, almost a smile.
“You brought crackers.”
“He knew I was there.”
“He always knew.”
“Then why didn’t he tell?”
“He said you were the only person in the house who listened without correcting him.”
May you like
Sloane stared at the telephone receiver on the floor.
The small memory did not feel comforting. It felt like evidence arriving too late.
