Chapter 4 - The Woman Who Died Thirteen Years Ago
Security locked the vineyard gates.
Most guests believed the power outage had been an electrical problem.
Claire knew better.
Ethan had stopped pretending.
He took her into the bridal suite with Natalie and his mother.
“Tell me everything,” Claire demanded.
So he did.
The trust.
The inheritance.
Mercer.
The allegedly forged documents.
Charles Wexler.
Thirty-eight million dollars.
Claire listened without speaking.
When Ethan finished, she stood at the window looking toward the vineyard.
“My grandmother wasn’t worth thirty-eight million dollars.”
“She was.”
“No. Dad said she sold most of the land when Grandpa died.”
“Apparently she didn’t.”
Claire shook her head.
“This makes no sense.”
Susan Cole spoke gently.
“It might if someone spent years making sure you believed the wrong story.”
Claire turned.
“My father is difficult. He’s controlling. He says terrible things.”
She swallowed.
“But stealing from me?”
Nobody answered.
That silence hurt.
Claire looked at Ethan.
“You believe it.”
“I believe documents.”
“You barely know those people.”
“I know your father called five minutes after Mercer told me he’d found evidence.”
Claire looked away.
A knock sounded.
Security entered.
They had found Mercer.
He was in the parking lot.
Alive.
His nose was bleeding and his shirt had been torn.
Someone had struck him behind the administration building and taken his phone.
“Did you see who?” Ethan asked.
Mercer shook his head.
“No.”
“Could it have been Robert?”
“No. Robert is thirty miles away.”
Claire crossed her arms.
“How do you know?”
Mercer looked embarrassed.
“Because I checked.”
“What exactly were you doing for my father?”
“Accounting.”
“For eleven years?”
“Yes.”
“And suddenly, on my wedding day, you grow a conscience?”
Mercer absorbed the accusation.
“No.”
“Then why now?”
“Because yesterday Robert told me to destroy your grandmother’s original ledger.”
Claire stared.
“I asked him why.”
Mercer reached into his jacket.
“He said because dead women don’t keep books.”
Claire’s breath caught.
Mercer pulled out a small brass key.
“This belonged to Eleanor.”
“How do you know?”
“Because she gave it to me.”
Claire frowned.
“You never met my grandmother.”
Mercer’s expression grew complicated.
“Yes, I did.”
“When?”
“Two days before she died.”
Claire stepped closer.
“What are you talking about?”
Mercer opened his mouth.
A woman spoke from the doorway.
“He means two days before your father told everyone Eleanor died.”
Claire turned.
A woman stood in the corridor.
Sixty-five, perhaps.
Tall.
Silver threaded through dark hair.
Deep green dress.
Pearl earrings.
A thin scar ran from her left temple toward her ear.
Claire stared.
She knew that face.
There was a photograph in her childhood bedroom.
A photograph of two young women standing beside a lake.
Linda and Margaret Bennett.
Her mother and her aunt.
Margaret had supposedly died in a boating accident thirteen years earlier.
Claire whispered, “Aunt Margaret?”
The woman’s expression broke.
“Hello, Claire.”
Claire stepped backward.
“No.”
Margaret entered slowly.
“I know.”
“You’re dead.”
“I know.”
“My mother cried at your funeral.”
“I know.”
“I was there.”
“There was no body.”
“There was an urn.”
“Filled with fireplace ash.”
Claire’s knees almost gave way.
Ethan caught her arm.
“You let us think you were dead?”
Margaret’s eyes filled.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“To stay alive.”
Claire stared.
“From who?”
Margaret looked at Mercer.
Then Ethan.
May you like
Finally back at Claire.
“Your father.”
