Chapter 5 - THE MUSIC BOX
The revelation hit me with the force of a physical blow.
Anna’s death hadn’t been a tragic accident on a slick, rain-swept highway. It had been murder. And the woman who killed her was the same woman I had let tuck my children into bed.
“You knew?” I roared into the phone, the car swerving slightly as my vision clouded with rage. “You knew she killed my wife and you said nothing?!”
“I didn't know for sure!” Grace cried, her voice echoing with a guilt so profound it broke through my anger. “Valerie—Vanessa—disappeared after the crash. I didn't see her for two years until her picture was in the paper, announcing your engagement. I knew how dangerous she was. I knew what she was capable of. I faked my resume and took the housekeeper job to protect your kids, to find out what she was doing. I swear to you, Mr. Whitaker, I love those children!”
I believed her. The slap Grace had taken for Sophie proved it.
“The music box,” I said, forcing my breathing to steady. “Vanessa took it. Why?”
“Because of the tune,” Grace explained rapidly. “Anna was a composer. She wrote that lullaby for Caleb. But Vanessa isn't a musician. She didn't steal the box for the music. There’s a false panel in the bottom of that box, Evan. Anna hid something inside it before she died. Vanessa couldn't open it because it requires a specific key.”
The blood-stained silver key.
“She has the box, but I have the key,” I realized. Vanessa couldn't get what she wanted without me.
“Evan, listen to me,” Grace said, her tone shifting from apologetic to urgent. “Vanessa isn't a mastermind. She’s a grifter. A hired gun. She doesn’t have the resources to orchestrate a car crash, invent a new identity, and infiltrate a billionaire’s life on her own. Someone financed her. Someone hired her to kill Anna, and someone hired her to marry you.”
The implication froze the blood in my veins.
If Vanessa was just a pawn, who was the player?
I pulled up to the abandoned Stamford shipyard. The massive, rusting hulks of decommissioned freighters loomed in the gray afternoon fog. It was desolate. Silent.
I grabbed the silver key from the passenger seat, tucked my personal, registered firearm into the waistband of my trousers, and stepped out of the car.
“Vanessa!” I shouted, my voice echoing off the corrugated steel warehouses.
A shadow moved near the dry dock. Vanessa stepped out. She was wearing a trench coat, holding a heavy black flashlight in one hand, and Caleb’s wooden music box in the other.
But Caleb wasn't with her.
“Where is my son?” I demanded, drawing my weapon and pointing it squarely at her chest.
Vanessa didn't flinch. She just smiled. “Put the gun away, Evan. Caleb is locked in the trunk of a car parked three blocks from here. It’s soundproof, and it’s getting cold. You shoot me, you’ll never find him in time.”
My hand shook, but I lowered the gun. “Give me the location.”
“Give me the key.” She tossed the wooden music box onto the gravel between us. “Open it, Evan. Get the ledger out for me. Then we trade.”
I walked forward slowly, keeping my eyes on her. I knelt, picking up the music box. I slid the silver key into a nearly invisible slot beneath the brass winding key. It clicked. The bottom panel slid away.
Inside was a tiny, leather-bound notebook. A ledger.
I flipped it open. It was full of bank routing numbers, offshore accounts, and dates.
One date caught my eye. October 14th. The day Anna died. Next to it was a payment of $500,000.
I looked at the signature at the bottom of the page, authorizing the transfer. My heart stopped.
I knew the handwriting perfectly. I had seen it on thousands of legal contracts over the last decade.
It was Michael Reeves.
May you like
“Surprised?” a voice echoed from the shadows behind Vanessa.
Michael stepped into the light, holding a suppressed pistol aimed directly at my head.
