Chapter 3
Nathan caught Delaney’s wrist in mid-air.
His grip was absolute. Delaney gasped, her perfectly manicured fingers stopping inches from Sophie’s face.
“Don’t you ever lunge at my daughter again,” Nathan said.
He released her arm with a disgust that made Delaney stumble backward. She bumped into her own chair, her face flushed with humiliation and sudden, sharp panic.
Sophie pressed herself against my side. I wrapped a protective arm around her small shoulders. She handed the blue stationery to her father.
Nathan unfolded it. The room was so quiet I could hear the paper creak.
I recognized the paper. Rebecca always used heavy blue cardstock for her thank-you notes.
Nathan read it. His eyes darted across the page once, then twice. The muscles in his jaw tightened until I thought they might snap.
“Where did you find this, Sophie?” Nathan asked softly.
“Inside the lining of Mom’s yellow coat,” Sophie whispered. “Before Delaney took it away, I hugged it. I felt the paper crunch inside the pocket. Mom had sewn it shut.”
I looked at Delaney. She was staring at the letter, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
“What does it say, Nathan?” an older man at the end of the table asked. It was Arthur Sterling, Nathan’s uncle.
Nathan didn’t answer him. He looked directly at Delaney.
“My wife wrote this two weeks before she died,” Nathan said, his voice hollow. “She wrote that her medication was making her lose her memory. That she was finding documents with her signature on them, but she didn’t remember signing them.”
Delaney forced a sad, patronizing smile. “Nathan, the doctors warned us about this. The tumor caused severe cognitive decline. She was confused. She thought the nurses were stealing from her.”
“She didn't mention the nurses,” Nathan said.
He turned the blue paper around.
“She specifically mentioned you, Delaney. She wrote: Delaney brings me papers when Nathan is at work. She tells me they are medical release forms. But today, I saw the letterhead. It was from the estate lawyers.”
The guests erupted into whispers.
“That’s absurd,” Delaney said, crossing her arms to hide the shaking of her hands. “I was her therapist. I was helping her regain motor function. Why would I make her sign estate papers?”
“Because,” Nathan said, pulling the courier’s manifest back up. “This signature releasing her items for destruction... it’s perfectly steady. Too steady.”
I stepped forward. “Rebecca’s hands shook terribly in her final months. She couldn’t even hold a teacup, let alone sign a legal document with perfect penmanship.”
Delaney’s eyes narrowed at me. “She had good days and bad days, Eleanor.”
“Not good enough to replicate her signature from before she got sick,” Nathan said. He handed the manifest to his uncle Arthur, who was a retired judge.
Arthur adjusted his glasses, tracing the signature. “Nathan is right. This is a traced signature. Someone used a light-box and an old document to forge Rebecca's name.”
Delaney laughed, a high, brittle sound. “This is ridiculous! I am trying to build a future for this family, and you are all attacking me over old clothes and the paranoid ramblings of a dying woman!”
“If they were just old clothes,” I said quietly, “why did you need them shredded immediately before the wedding?”
Delaney glared at me. “Because they were taking up space!”
“No,” Sophie said suddenly.
The ten-year-old stepped out from behind me. She walked over to the wedding gown still resting on my chair.
“You didn’t care about the clothes, Delaney,” Sophie said, her small voice carrying across the ballroom. “You were looking for the wooden jewelry box.”
Delaney froze. Her red lips parted, but no sound came out.
“The housekeeper said you took everything from the cedar room,” Sophie continued. “But I took the jewelry box yesterday morning. Before you locked the door.”
Nathan knelt down to his daughter’s level. “Sophie, where is the box?”
Sophie reached beneath the heavy tablecloth and pulled out a carved mahogany box.
Delaney lunged again, but this time, not for the girl. She lunged for the silver scissors resting on the table.
May you like
Before anyone could react, Delaney gripped the scissors and pointed them directly at Nathan.
“Don't open it,” Delaney whispered, her voice dropping all pretense of elegance.
