Chapter 5 - THE GHOST IN ISABELLA’S ROOM
Richard reached Isabella’s bedroom before any of us.
I stayed directly behind him despite three separate orders not to.
The door stood open.
The room beyond it was dark.
No lamps.
No movement.
Only pale afternoon light filtering through heavy curtains.
“Alex,” Richard said without looking back, “stay with Elena.”
Normally I would have objected to being assigned a child while Richard handled danger.
This time, Alex had grabbed my hand.
I stayed.
Richard entered.
Two security men followed.
Nothing happened.
No gunshot.
No shout.
Then the lights came on.
The room was empty.
Alex stared.
“She was here.”
Richard turned.
“Who?”
“A woman.”
“You said Mom.”
“She looked like Mom.”
A chill moved over my skin.
“What was she doing?” I asked.
“Standing by the dresser.”
“Did she talk to you?”
He nodded.
Richard crossed the room.
“What did she say?”
Alex’s face crumpled slightly.
“She said, ‘Your mother left something for you.’”
Richard stopped breathing.
I felt it.
Everyone did.
“Then what?”
“I called Dad. When I looked back, she went through there.”
He pointed toward the dressing room.
Security searched every closet, bathroom, terrace, and hidden service corridor.
No woman.
But the balcony door was unlocked.
One camera covering the west wall had malfunctioned for seven minutes.
Exactly seven.
Richard’s face became frighteningly calm.
“I want every frame before and after the outage.”
“Yes, sir.”
I walked toward the dresser.
A framed photograph of Isabella stood beside a small silver jewelry box.
The woman in the Polaroid with my father had definitely been her.
Older in these pictures.
Elegant.
Warm eyes.
The sort of face children trusted.
“Why would somebody dress like her?” I whispered.
“To frighten Alex,” Richard said.
“Or to tell him something.”
His eyes met mine.
I opened the top dresser drawer.
Empty.
Second drawer.
Silk scarves.
Third.
Nothing.
I crouched.
The lowest drawer jammed halfway.
“Richard.”
He joined me.
Together we pulled.
The drawer came free.
Behind it was a narrow cavity.
Inside lay a blue leather journal.
Richard stared at it.
“You knew that was there?”
“No.”
I lifted it carefully.
Embossed on the front were the initials I.L.
Isabella Lancaster.
Richard sat down on the edge of the bed.
For a man famous for controlling everything, he suddenly looked lost.
“You should read it,” I said.
“No.”
I blinked.
“Why?”
“Because if Isabella hid it, she hid it for a reason.”
“Maybe the reason was so someone would eventually find it.”
He stared at the journal.
“Read it.”
“Me?”
“Yes.”
“Richard, this is your wife’s diary.”
“And you may understand references to your father that I won’t.”
That was how, one hour later, I ended up sitting in Isabella Lancaster’s private bedroom reading the thoughts of a dead woman.
Most pages were ordinary.
The boys.
Richard working too much.
Max learning to walk.
Alex’s first day of preschool.
Her frustration with charity boards.
Her love for terrible television.
Little pieces of a woman whose life had ended too early.
Then, halfway through, the tone changed.
Dominic visited again. Richard trusts him too much.
Three pages later:
G. called tonight. He wants access to the boys’ trust before Richard even knows it exists. I told him never.
Another entry:
Thomas Hart was right years ago. Someone built the theft into legitimate contracts so deeply that nobody wanted to see it.
My pulse increased.
“Richard.”
He came closer.
I read aloud.
“Thomas kept the original ledger away from the Lancaster offices. D told me they never found it after his death.”
Richard’s face hardened.
“D.”
“Dominic?”
“Probably.”
I continued.
Then:
If I am right, Thomas died because he refused to surrender proof.
And two lines later:
If anything happens to me, Richard must find Elena Hart.
My hands began to shake.
“She knew my name.”
Richard took the journal.
“She was looking for you.”
“Why?”
He turned the page.
The next section had been torn out.
Five pages missing.
I stared at the ragged binding.
“Someone got here before us.”
Richard looked toward the unlocked balcony door.
The woman who appeared to Alex.
She had not come to leave something behind.
She had come to take something.
She simply hadn’t found the journal.
“Keep reading,” I said.
The last written page was dated four days before Isabella’s death.
The handwriting was hurried.
Richard read silently.
His face changed.
“What?”
He handed me the journal.
I read.
I finally understand why Gabriel wants the children. It was never only the trust. If Richard discovers what Gabriel and D have done, there will be war.
Below that:
I cannot tell Richard until I move the evidence somewhere safe.
Then:
The enemy is not outside our gates.
He eats at our table.
And finally:
If I die, do not let Richard become what grief will try to make him.
I looked up.
Richard stood by the window.
For the first time since meeting him, I understood the shape of his loneliness.
He had believed his wife died because of bad weather.
Now every memory of that day was being rewritten.
“Were you happy?” I asked.
He turned.
“With Isabella?”
“Yes.”
His expression softened.
“We were friends before we were anything else.”
“Did you love her?”
“Very much.”
Oddly, the answer did not hurt.
It made me trust him a little more.
“What happened after she died?”
“I stopped being the father my sons needed.”
His honesty caught me off guard.
“I made the house secure. I gave them everything money could buy. Tutors. Protection. Whatever they wanted.”
“But not you.”
“No.”
He looked toward the hall.
“Alex became angry. Max stopped sleeping alone. I told myself grief required time.”
“And three years passed.”
“Yes.”
I sat beside the diary.
“Then why marry now?”
His eyes moved to me.
“The guardianship issue became urgent two weeks ago.”
“What changed?”
“Gabriel filed a private petition questioning whether my household was stable enough for the children.”
My mouth fell open.
“He is trying to take them?”
“If something happens to me, yes. Possibly sooner.”
“So you needed a wife.”
“I needed someone the court could trust.”
“And you picked a homeless waitress.”
“I picked a woman who once stood between a drunk man and a seventeen-year-old girl even though doing so cost her job.”
I froze.
“You saw that?”
“I was outside.”
Of course he had been.
“You followed me.”
“My people were watching you.”
“Very romantic.”
“I never claimed romance.”
“No. You claimed insanity.”
His gaze held mine.
“I watched you for three months, Elena.”
Something changed in the room.
Not danger.
Something worse.
Awareness.
“You gave a homeless man your lunch when you thought nobody was looking. You spent forty minutes helping an elderly woman find her missing handbag. You memorized the way Max likes his hot chocolate after serving him once when Teresa brought the boys into Manhattan.”
I remembered that day.
Two little boys.
One quiet man waiting in the car.
I had not known they were Richard’s sons.
“You knew then?”
“Yes.”
“That you wanted me to marry you?”
“No.”
“What did you know?”
“That if my sons ever needed someone other than me, I wanted it to be someone like you.”
The words hit too deeply.
I looked away.
“This is still a contract.”
“Yes.”
“No touching.”
“Yes.”
“No pretending when we’re alone.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Neither of us moved.
We were standing less than two feet apart.
That felt like a problem.
I stepped back.
“I want to see the original storage facility my father used.”
Richard frowned.
“It has been empty for eighteen years.”
“Maybe everyone searched for the wrong thing.”
“Elena—”
“My father hid birthday presents in cereal boxes because he thought burglars would check closets first.”
“That is deeply strange.”
“He was deeply strange.”
Richard almost smiled.
“Tomorrow.”
“Tonight.”
“No.”
“Richard.”
“No.”
“Marriage is going wonderfully.”
“Tomorrow, with security.”
I hated that he was right.
That evening, after the boys slept, I returned to my room.
My suitcases had been replaced with new luggage Richard’s staff apparently considered less tragic.
I refused to use them.
While transferring clothes, I reached into the lining of my oldest suitcase.
My fingers touched metal.
I frowned.
A small brass key had been sewn into the fabric.
I had owned that suitcase since childhood.
My father had packed it for the last vacation we ever took.
There was a tiny metal tag attached to the key.
Q-417.
Queens.
Storage unit 417.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
I ran into the hallway.
“Richard!”
No answer.
Then the lights went out.
Complete darkness swallowed the corridor.
A hand clamped over my mouth from behind.
May you like
And a man whispered against my ear.
“Your father should have given us that key eighteen years ago.”
