Chapter 13 - THE LAST SECRET BENEATH THE ROSES
My mother died five years after my father.
The doctors said it was heart failure.
She had been forty-nine.
For seven years, I believed grief had simply worn her down.
Now Eleanor was telling me someone might have killed her.
I drove back to the Whitmore estate before sunrise.
Grant was waiting on the front steps.
He hadn't changed clothes.
His tie was gone.
His hair was disheveled.
He looked nothing like the untouchable man who had laughed at me in the ballroom.
“Emily,” he said.
I walked past him.
“Where's your grandmother?”
“In the library.”
I stopped.
“Did you know?”
“No.”
I studied his face.
I wanted to believe him.
And I did.
That frightened me more than anything.
Inside, Eleanor sat beside the fireplace.
A small folder rested on her lap.
“Your mother contacted me three weeks before she died,” she said.
I sat down.
“Why?”
“She had discovered something in Daniel's old belongings.”
Eleanor opened the folder.
Inside were medical records.
Insurance documents.
And a photograph of my mother standing outside a private clinic.
“Mercer had people inside that clinic,” Eleanor said.
My hands trembled.
“What happened to her?”
“Investigators believe her medication may have been deliberately altered.”
The room spun.
Grant sat beside me.
He didn't touch me.
He simply stayed.
Eleanor continued.
“Your mother had found a second copy of Daniel's evidence. She planned to turn it over to the authorities.”
I looked up.
“Where is it?”
Eleanor shook her head.
“She never told me.”
I closed my eyes.
For years, I had carried anger toward my mother.
Anger that she'd become distant.
That she'd stopped dancing.
That she'd spent her final months staring at old photographs instead of talking to us.
Now I understood.
She had been afraid.
And she had been fighting.
Alone.
Grant spoke quietly.
“We can reopen the investigation.”
I looked at him.
“Will you?”
“Yes.”
“Even if it destroys what's left of your father's reputation?”
“Yes.”
I began crying.
He reached for my hand.
This time, I let him take it.
For a long while, we sat in silence.
Then Eleanor stood.
“There's one more thing.”
I almost laughed through my tears.
“Of course there is.”
She approached the fireplace.
Above it hung a large portrait of Thomas Whitmore.
Eleanor pointed toward the frame.
“Daniel painted the roses in the corners.”
I looked closer.
Four tiny roses decorated the gold frame.
One was slightly crooked.
I remembered the brass key.
The mirror.
The dance.
My father's love of hiding meaning in ordinary things.
I stood.
“Grant, help me take it down.”
Together, we lifted the painting.
Behind it was a narrow compartment.
Inside sat a small envelope.
My mother's handwriting covered the front.
For my girls.
I opened it.
Inside was a photograph of Rachel and me as children.
And a handwritten note.
If the world ever tells you that your father and I were weak, remember this: We were never afraid of losing our lives. We were afraid of losing you.
Beneath the note lay a second document.
A legal agreement.
Signed by Thomas Whitmore.
It established a trust in my father's name.
The amount made me stare.
Forty-eight million dollars.
Grant read the final paragraph.
His expression changed.
“Emily…”
“What?”
He looked at me.
“This isn't a gift.”
May you like
He turned the document around.
“It's restitution. My father knew your family was owed everything Mercer stole.”
