Chapter 4
The elevator descended smoothly into the subterranean parking garage, its brushed steel doors parting to reveal the damp, concrete expanse where a row of sleek black town cars idled quietly. Derek guided Lily by the shoulder, his grip firm enough to steer her precisely where he wanted, yet light enough to appear gentle to the hired driver standing by the rear door.
"Get in, Lily," Derek instructed softly, opening the door of the lead vehicle. The little girl slid across the dark leather seat, pulling her cloth doll tightly against her chest. She stared out the tinted window as Eleanor settled heavily into the seat beside her, immediately pulling a black leather handbag onto her lap.
Derek closed the door with a dull thud, signaling the driver to wait. He turned back toward the elevator bank just as the second car rolled in, carrying Arthur and the remaining family attendants. He waited until the vehicles were completely out of sight before pulling out his encrypted smartphone, dialing a familiar, private number.
"It's me," Derek said quietly into the receiver as soon as the line connected. "The police are poking around. They spoke to Henderson. The divorce files."
A sharp, nervous intake of breath crackled through the speaker. It was Marcus, the family's longtime estate manager and legal fixer. "Mr. Vance, I handled the downtown office this morning. The physical files were locked in the secure cabinet, but Henderson’s paralegal is loose-lipped. She saw Clara drop off the backup drive."
"Find that drive," Derek ordered, his voice dropping into a dangerous register that brooked no failure. "Tear Clara's study apart if you have to. If the police get a warrant for the master suite safe before we secure those records, we're finished."
"I'm already at the estate," Marcus replied. "The house is empty. The staff is still at the reception hall. I'll sweep the entire west wing."
Twenty minutes later, Marcus’s luxury sedan pulled through the iron gates of the Vance estate, a sprawling, gothic-revival mansion perched high on the cliffs overlooking the churning gray ocean. The rain had ceased, leaving behind a thick, suffocating fog that clung to the manicured lawns and choked the ancient oak trees lining the winding drive.
Marcus parked beneath the grand portico, hurrying inside through the heavy side entrance to avoid the security cameras mounted near the main doors. The interior of the mansion was freezing; the climate control system had been dialed down to a damp chill since Clara’s passing. He walked with brisk, silent steps across the imported French parquet flooring of the grand foyer, his leather-soled shoes echoing hollowly against the high ceilings.
He took the sweeping wrought-iron staircase two steps at a time, heading straight for the private master wing on the third floor. The double doors to Clara's suite remained locked from the outside—a precaution Derek had insisted upon immediately after the paramedics departed. Marcus pulled a small brass master key from his pocket, sliding it into the antique lock with a soft click.
The room was exactly as Clara had left it on Tuesday night. The king-sized bed was neatly made, the heavy velvet drapes drawn tightly against the encroaching fog. But something was wrong. A faint, sweet scent hung in the air—not the expensive French perfume Clara always wore, but the sharp, chemical tang of industrial solvent.
Marcus stepped further into the room, his eyes scanning the mahogany writing desk near the bay window. The laptop was gone. The small floor safe hidden behind the floor-length oil painting of Eleanor stood wide open, its steel door swinging lazily on its hinges.
May you like
Empty.
Marcus froze, his breath catching in his throat as a soft floorboard creaked directly behind him in the shadowed hallway.
