Chapter 7 - THE BRASS LAMP
The heavy brass lamp struck Arthur directly on the shoulder. He cried out, dropping the crowbar as he fell to his knees.
I didn't hesitate. I kicked the crowbar across the sawdust-covered floor, grabbed Arthur by the collar of his apron, and shoved him backward into a stack of lumber.
"Olivia, run!" I screamed.
My daughter scrambled down the wooden stairs, her backpack bouncing against her shoulders. I grabbed her hand and we sprinted out of the workshop, locking the heavy iron latch from the outside.
We jumped into my car. My hands were shaking so violently I could barely put the keys in the ignition. As I slammed on the gas, I looked at Olivia in the passenger seat. She was pale, but her jaw was set.
"What were you doing there?" I demanded, breathless. "I told you to go to school!"
"I took an Uber," Olivia confessed, clutching her backpack. "Mom, Dad came to the house after you left. He was looking for something in Grandma's old bedroom. I hid in the closet."
My heart stopped. "Did he see you?"
"No. But he tore the room apart. He was screaming on the phone to someone. He said the partnership agreement wasn't in the safe, and if they didn't find it today, he was going to prison."
The partnership agreement. The one my mother told Rebecca about. The ironclad contract that proved Charles owned nothing.
"He left this behind," Olivia said.
She unzipped her backpack and pulled out a tattered, velvet box.
I recognized it immediately. It was my mother's jewelry box. I pulled the car over onto the shoulder of the highway, my hands trembling as I took it.
I opened the box. The jewelry was gone.
Instead, inside, was a single, faded photograph.
It was a picture of me, pregnant with Olivia, sitting in the walnut rocking chair. My mother was standing beside me, her hand resting on the arm of the chair.
But there was something wrong with the photo. My mother was pointing, very specifically, to the carved wooden rose on the right armrest.
The same armrest that had the tiny scratch Olivia made with her block.
"Mom," Olivia whispered, looking at the photo. "Grandma didn't want Dad to fix the scratch. She said it marked the spot."
I stared at the picture, the realization hitting me like a freight train.
The secret wasn't under the chair. Arthur had only found the carving and the drawer.
The real secret—the partnership agreement—was hidden inside the hollow armrest of the chair itself.
And the chair was sitting in the middle of Bennett Fine Furnishings headquarters, waiting to be shipped to a private buyer Charles had lined up to liquidate our assets.
"We have to go back to the office," I said, putting the car in drive.
My phone buzzed in the cup holder. The caller ID flashed: REBECCA.
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I answered it, putting it on speaker.
"Margaret!" Rebecca's voice was frantic. "Charles is moving the chair. He just ordered the movers to load it onto a private freight truck out back. He’s destroying the evidence!"
