Chapter 6 - A Mother’s Paranoia

Inside the penthouse library of the Vance Manor, Victoria Vance poured three fingers of bourbon into a crystal tumbler, her hands shaking so hard the bottle clinked against the glass.

Daniel paced back and forth across the Persian rug, chewing his thumbnail, his tie loosened, sweat shining on his forehead.

"It’s impossible," Daniel muttered for the tenth time. "She was buried under three feet of earth in an unmarked county plot after the clinic fire. The coroner confirmed the remains were charred beyond dental recognition."

"You idiot!" Victoria hissed, slamming the glass down onto the antique side table. "You didn't look at the bodies! You took a corrupt backwoods sheriff's word because you were too squeamish to step into the morgue!"

"There was blood everywhere on the flagstones, Mother!" Daniel yelled, turning on her with bared teeth. "She fell sixty feet onto solid stone! Nobody survives that! The maid was sixty years old with bad hips—she would have splattered on impact! What are you suggesting? That Clara grew wings and flew to London, changed her face, and became a high-powered corporate auditor in six months?!"

"Look at the way that woman stood, Daniel!" Victoria’s voice climbed into a shrill screech. "The way she tilted her head when she mocked me! The way she said Mrs. Vance with that subtle, disgusting little curl of her lip! That wasn't an auditor from London! That was the orphan girl you brought home from that dirty little community college!"

Daniel stopped pacing, running both hands through his hair, his chest heaving. "Even if it was her... which is scientifically, medically impossible... she doesn't have the proof. The original trust ledger is locked in the subterranean vault at the manor. Nobody has the key except me."

"And where is the backup key?" Victoria asked, her eyes narrowing into cold slits.

Daniel froze.

"Daniel," Victoria whispered, the venom returning to her tone. "Where did you leave the second key?"

"In Clara’s old jewelry box," Daniel stammered, his voice dropping into panic. "The one she left in the master bedroom dressing table. I threw all her cheap junk into the storage shed behind the stables after the funeral."

Victoria grabbed Daniel by the lapels of his designer shirt, pulling him down to her eye level. "You go down to that shed right now. You find that box. If that key is missing, Daniel... we don't just lose the company. We go to federal prison for double murder."

Twenty minutes later, Daniel was tearing through the cobweb-filled darkness of the estate’s carriage house shed, flashlight beam whipping wildly across dusty cardboard boxes and discarded furniture.

He kicked aside an old rocking chair, ripping open a plastic bin marked Clara’s Personal Effects.

He reached into the bottom, pulling out a small, worn rosewood jewelry box. His fingers trembled as he pried open the brass latch.

Inside lay a single baby rattle, a dried corsage from their first anniversary, and an empty velvet recess where the brass vault key should have been.

Sitting in place of the key was a freshly printed note, the ink gleaming under his flashlight beam:

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Daniel stumbled backward, dropping the flashlight into the dirt, his breath catching in his throat as darkness swallowed the room.