Chương 13
“Yes.”
“All of them?”
“All of them.”
“Even the small one by the chair?”
Adrian looked across the hall toward her room. He had not entered it.
“I’ll check.”
“You said you opened them.”
He closed his eyes. “I was wrong.”
There was a pause.
“Okay,” she said.
She did not ask to speak to him longer.
He went upstairs and opened every curtain.
On her desk sat a half-finished bracelet made from plastic beads. On the carpet beneath it lay a pink bead he had stepped over for months. He picked it up and placed it beside the string, then realized he did not know whether she wanted it there.
He left it anyway.
Leonard’s proffer took place in a federal conference room because the investigation had expanded into financial crimes and interstate computer intrusion. Adrian was allowed to receive a summary afterward, not attend.
The sealed sailing report concerned his mother’s death eight years earlier.
She had taken the family’s thirty-four-foot sailboat from a marina in Maine without a crew. Weather was mild. The boat was found drifting the next morning. Her body was recovered two days later.
Publicly, investigators concluded she fell overboard after drinking.
The sealed toxicology report showed a sedative in her blood.
The same class found in Adrian’s hair.
Adrian read the summary twice.
Then a third time.
Isabelle came to the manor that evening without Sophie. Claire Benton drove her and waited outside.
Adrian met Isabelle in the entrance hall. Neither crossed the evidence seal over the cellar door.
She looked thinner. Her hair was pulled into a loose knot, and the scratch on her cheek had faded to a pink line.
“How much did Leonard know?” she asked.
“He knew about the sedative. My father asked him to keep it private.”
“Why?”
“Reputation. Insurance. The company was issuing debt.”
Isabelle closed her eyes briefly.
“Did Daniel know?”
“Yes. He investigated whether someone drugged her.”
“And?”
“He concluded she had taken pills voluntarily.”
“Did she have a prescription?”
“No.”
“Then how did he conclude that?”
“Leonard says Daniel found messages suggesting she bought them from a friend.”
“Did he?”
“The messages are missing.”
Isabelle looked toward the chandelier. Its maintenance net had been removed. The crystals hung motionless above them.
“Someone drugged your mother,” she said.
“Maybe.”
“The same kind of drug appears in you, and then someone uses a version on me.”
“I know.”
“Your father thought you were at risk.”
“No. My father thought I was the risk.”
“Those can both be true.”
Adrian looked at her.
She took one careful step closer. “What if he built the continuity system because he suspected someone inside the family structure? What if he didn’t know who?”
“He put Daniel and Leonard in charge.”
“Maybe he trusted them.”
“That would make him a poor judge of character.”
“You inherited that.”
The line was dry enough that he almost smiled.
Almost.
They went to the study. Adrian poured coffee for both of them, then forgot which cup had sugar. Isabelle took the wrong one, tasted it, and switched without comment.
“Ruiz believes Kessler may have worked here before the renovation,” Adrian said. “Under another identity.”
“For whom?”
“That is the question.”
He showed her an old family-office photograph recovered from Daniel’s archive. It had been taken at a company retreat twelve years earlier. Leonard stood near the center. Daniel was at the edge. Margaret Ellis held a wineglass beside Adrian’s father.
Behind them, carrying a tray, was Evan Kessler.
He was younger, heavier, clean-shaven. But the eyes and ears matched.
Isabelle studied the image. “Staff?”
“Temporary catering.”
“Was the retreat before your mother died?”
“Four years before.”
“So he had access to the family for years.”
“Intermittently.”
“Who hired the catering company?”
“The family office.”
“Who approved vendors?”
Adrian looked at the image.
The answer was not Leonard or Daniel.
It was his father’s executive administrator, a woman who had remained with the family office after his death and now served as chief financial officer of the family trust.
Catherine Wynn.
Thomas Wynn’s sister.
Catherine had been inside the manor during the lockdown.
She was one of the office personnel held in the ballroom while Isabelle was below.
Adrian remembered her standing near the terrace doors when he addressed the confined staff. She had worn a navy dress and low heels, her silver-blonde hair cut neatly at the chin. She had asked whether payroll would be delayed. Nothing in her expression had seemed unusual.
She had worked for the Vale family for twenty-seven years.
Adrian called Ruiz.
The detective did not respond with surprise. “We’re already looking at her.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because you call people.”
The rebuke was deserved.
“What do you have?”
“Not enough.”
“Was she connected to North Harbor?”
“Indirectly. One registration payment came from an account used by the family office for vendor reimbursements.”
“She controls that account.”
“So do four other people.”
“Did she hire Kessler?”
“We found an email from twelve years ago recommending the catering company. The sender account belonged to her assistant.”
“Who is dead.”
“Yes.”
“Where is Catherine now?”
“At home. Under surveillance.”
Adrian looked at Isabelle. “Bring her in.”
“That is not your decision.”
“She has access to everything.”
“We know.”
“She was inside the house.”
“We know.”
“She could have locked the door.”
“We know.”
Ruiz’s patience thinned. “What we do not know is whether you are identifying a suspect or reacting to the first explanation that relieves you from choosing between two men you trusted.”
The words struck cleanly.
Adrian ended the call without answering.
Isabelle stood by the desk. “She’s right.”
“I know.”
“That does not mean Catherine is innocent.”
“I know.”
“You keep saying that.”
He pressed his fingers against his eyes. A headache had begun behind the left temple. For months, headaches had made him doubt his body. Now each one arrived carrying accusation.
Isabelle opened a drawer, found aspirin, and stopped.
May you like
“What?”
She held up the bottle.
