Chapter 3 - THE DRAWING OF THE WOMAN IN RED
Vanessa took a step back, her heel catching on the edge of the Persian rug.
“That’s a lie,” she breathed. “That is an absolute lie. Beatrice, how could you?”
Daniel stood up slowly. He didn’t yell. He didn’t throw the bracelet. He just held it in his palm, his thumb tracing the small silver wing charm.
“Vanessa,” he said, his voice terrifyingly calm. “Why do you have my dead wife’s jewelry?”
“I don’t!” Vanessa pointed a shaking finger at Beatrice. “She’s planting things! I told you she was losing her mind, Daniel. She hates me. She wants to ruin this engagement, so she stole it from wherever Claire hid it and put it in my room!”
It was a plausible excuse. It made horrifying sense. Beatrice had the motive.
I looked at the old woman. Her face was pale, and for a terrifying second, I wondered if Vanessa was right. Grief makes people do desperate things.
But then Ivy tugged on my apron.
“Raina,” the eight-year-old whispered. “That’s the bracelet from the picture.”
“I know, sweetie,” I whispered back, pulling her close.
“No,” Ivy insisted, her voice growing louder. “Not Mommy’s picture. My picture.”
Daniel turned to his daughter. “What picture, Ivy?”
Ivy let go of my apron and ran toward the hallway. We all stood frozen until she returned a moment later, carrying a crumpled piece of drawing paper. She held it out to her father.
It was a child’s crayon drawing. It showed a woman with yellow hair and a red dress.
Vanessa’s face drained of color. She was wearing a red dress tonight. Her hair was blonde.
“I drew this on Tuesday,” Ivy said quietly. “When I hid in Vanessa’s closet because she was yelling at the maids.”
Daniel stared at the drawing.
“Look at her hand, Daddy,” Ivy said.
In the drawing, on the wrist of the woman in the red dress, Ivy had drawn a silver circle with little wings hanging off it.
Vanessa was wearing the bracelet on Tuesday.
“You told me it was a vintage piece you bought in Paris,” Daniel said, his voice cracking as he looked at Vanessa.
Vanessa’s chest heaved. “Daniel, I didn’t know it was Claire’s. I swear. I bought it at an estate sale a year ago. It’s just a coincidence!”
She was frantic. But as she stepped forward to grab Daniel’s arm, her sleeve caught on the edge of his suit jacket.
A folded piece of paper slipped from Vanessa’s pocket and landed face-up on the dining table.
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It was an old, faded train ticket.
And the date printed in thick black ink was the exact night Claire died.
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