Chapter 3 - The Painting in the West Library
Blackwood House had eighty-seven rooms, but only one portrait everyone called the family portrait.
It hung in the west library above a fireplace no one had used since Rose’s husband died.
The painting had been commissioned after Claire’s eighteenth birthday. Rose sat at the center. Claire stood to her right, dressed in white. Celeste stood to her left in pale green.
The artist had painted all three women with similar gray eyes.
Evelyn had spent years staring at those eyes and wondering why none of them looked like hers.
Two days after Rose’s death, the house was crowded with florists, caterers, relatives, and estate representatives. Victor had hired private security and announced that no personal items could be removed.
Evelyn entered through the kitchen, using the key Rose had given her when she was sixteen.
No one stopped her.
Most of the staff still considered her the only person who had truly belonged there.
She crossed the rear corridor and entered the library.
Rain tapped against the tall windows. White cloths covered several pieces of furniture. Boxes had already been placed near the shelves.
Evelyn stood before the portrait.
The one that lied.
At first, she saw nothing unusual.
Then she noticed Claire’s painted left hand.
The position of the fingers looked unnatural, as though the artist had originally painted them holding something and later covered it.
Evelyn lifted the frame slightly.
Behind it was a shallow wooden recess.
At the center of the recess sat a small brass keyhole.
She inserted Rose’s key.
The lock opened.
Inside lay a photograph, a black digital recorder, and one torn page from a financial ledger.
The photograph had been taken outside Haven House, the shelter Rose founded before Evelyn was born.
Rose stood beside Claire.
Between them was a dark-haired woman Evelyn did not recognize.
The woman held a baby wrapped in a yellow blanket.
Claire held another baby in blue.
Someone had folded the photograph down the center, hiding most of the second child.
On the back, Rose had written:
The night we saved one daughter and lost another.
Evelyn read the sentence twice.
She unfolded the photograph.
Before she could see the second baby’s face, a door closed somewhere in the corridor.
Evelyn quickly slid the picture beneath her blouse and examined the ledger page.
It listed transfers from the Haven House Foundation to a company called Red Vale Holdings.
The amounts totaled more than four million dollars.
At the bottom were two signatures.
Victor Mercer.
Martin Voss.
The recorder contained one file.
Evelyn pressed play.
Rose’s voice came through the tiny speaker.
“Evelyn, if you are hearing this, I did not have enough time to finish what I began.”
Footsteps approached the library.
Evelyn lowered the volume.
“The family will tell you Lena Vale is dead. Before you believe them, ask who signed the release.”
The footsteps stopped outside.
“Find the red room before they empty it.”
The handle turned.
Evelyn shoved the recorder into her pocket and returned the ledger page to the compartment.
Victor entered.
He closed the door behind him.
“You should be with the funeral director,” he said.
“I needed a few minutes alone.”
“In the library?”
“It was Grandmother’s favorite room.”
Victor looked at the portrait.
Then at the dust on Evelyn’s sleeve.
“Rose had many secrets,” he said. “Most of them hurt innocent people.”
“Is that what you’re afraid I’ll find?”
He smiled.
“I’m afraid grief will convince you that every unanswered question has an exciting answer.”
He moved closer.
“Sometimes a locked room is empty. Sometimes an old woman hides things because she no longer remembers why they frightened her.”
Evelyn held his gaze.
“Then you have nothing to worry about.”
Victor stepped aside.
She left the library without running.
At the end of the corridor, she looked back.
Victor was still standing beneath the portrait.
That evening, Evelyn returned with Nathan Cole, the lawyer whose card Rose had left in her hospital Bible.
The brass compartment had been torn apart.
The ledger page was gone.
The wood around the keyhole was splintered.
May you like
Only four words remained, scratched into the back panel with something sharp.
You were already expected.
