Chapter 3 - THE SILVER KEY
I held the small silver key in my palm. The metallic edge felt ice-cold against my skin.
“Blood,” I murmured, tracing the dark, rusted stain on the ridges of the key. “Whose blood is this?”
“I don't know,” Grace said, her eyes locked on mine. “But Vanessa was frantic when she hid it. She’s not just a cruel woman who wants your money, Mr. Whitaker. She’s looking for something. She’s been tearing this house apart while you’re in London.”
My mind raced. Anna’s art studio in SoHo had been locked up since the day she died. I couldn't bear to step inside it. But Vanessa had asked me for the deed three separate times, claiming she wanted to “handle the painful memories” for me by clearing it out. I had mistaken her persistence for empathy.
“Sophie,” I said gently, crouching down to my daughter’s eye level. “Did Vanessa ever ask you about Mommy’s art studio?”
Sophie nodded, her lower lip trembling. “She yelled at me. She said Mommy hid something in a box, and if I didn’t tell her where it was, you would go away forever. Just like Mommy.”
A white-hot fury ignited in my chest.
I pulled out my phone and dialed Michael Reeves, my attorney. He answered on the second ring.
“Evan, I’m getting calls from the estate,” Michael said, sounding breathless. “The donors are saying you showed up looking like a vagrant and threw Vanessa out. Please tell me you didn't do anything rash.”
“I need my car, Michael. Meet me at Anna’s studio in Manhattan in two hours.”
“Evan, wait, the press—”
I hung up. I looked at Grace. “Stay with them. Lock this door. Do not let anyone in, not even my security team, until I return.”
“I’ll guard them with my life,” Grace promised.
I washed the mud from my face, changed into a dark suit, and drove to the city like a man possessed. When I arrived at the SoHo loft, Michael was already pacing the sidewalk, checking his gold watch. He looked exhausted, his tie loosened.
“This is a mistake, Evan,” Michael warned as I bypassed him and jammed the silver key into the heavy iron door of the studio. “Vanessa is already calling her lawyers. She’s claiming you’re having a psychotic break from grief.”
“Let her claim whatever she wants,” I said, turning the lock.
The door creaked open. The studio smelled of dried oil paint, turpentine, and dust. The afternoon light filtered through the skylight, illuminating Anna’s covered canvases. My chest tightened, a familiar wave of grief washing over me, but the anger kept me moving.
I walked straight to Anna’s antique mahogany desk. I ran my hands underneath the heavy wood, searching for the false bottom Anna used to hide her sketchbooks. My fingers caught a hidden latch. I pulled.
The secret drawer slid open.
Inside was a single manila envelope. No box. No art. Just documents.
I tore the envelope open. Inside was a birth certificate, a sealed psychiatric evaluation, and a restraining order from a court in Pennsylvania.
I read the name on the documents.
Valerie Hutton.
I stared at the photograph attached to the restraining order. It was Vanessa. But her hair was darker, and her eyes lacked the polished gleam of the woman I knew.
“Michael,” I said, my voice hollow. “Run a background check on Valerie Hutton.”
Michael took the paper, his eyes widening. “Evan… this restraining order. It was filed by Anna. Twenty-four months ago. Two months before she died.”
The floor seemed to drop out from beneath me. Anna knew Vanessa. Not only did she know her, she was terrified of her. And I had brought this woman into my home.
May you like
Before I could process the horror of my own blindness, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Grace.
Mr. Whitaker, I’m so sorry. I thought she left. She was hiding in the house. She took Caleb.
