Chapter 4 - THE LETTER BEHIND THE SINK
My mother had been dead for fourteen years.
Yet when I opened that envelope, her voice came back.
Elena,
If you are reading this, something has gone wrong.
I stopped.
Dominic stood several feet away.
He did not try to read over my shoulder.
I appreciated that.
I continued.
You may have been brought back to Montrose because someone still believes you know what I discovered.
You don’t.
I made sure of that.
My hands shook.
There was more.
Trust Dominic only if he still hates mushrooms, still leaves books open facedown, and still drinks coffee so strong no reasonable person would call it coffee.
I slowly looked toward him.
“Do you hate mushrooms?”
“Yes.”
“Books?”
“Open facedown.”
“That’s terrible for the spine.”
“I’ve been told.”
“Coffee?”
“Black.”
“How black?”
“Julian says industrial.”
I swallowed.
Mom knew him.
Really knew him.
I read on.
Dominic is not his father.
Remember that.
The danger was never outside the Vale family.
It ate dinner at their table.
Below the letter was a series of numbers.
Not account numbers.
Not dates.
They looked meaningless.
But my mother used to write grocery lists strangely.
Milk - 3.
Bread - 7.
Apples - 2.
As a child, I thought she was counting quantities.
Later I realized the numbers corresponded to shelves and aisles so she could move through stores faster.
“These are locations,” I whispered.
Dominic leaned closer.
“Where?”
“In the house.”
I decoded the first line.
K-4-2.
Kitchen.
Fourth cabinet.
Second shelf.
We found an old recipe tin.
Empty.
Next:
L-3-B.
Library.
Third bookcase.
Bottom shelf.
Inside a hollowed-out history book was a photograph showing three men outside the Montrose house seventeen years earlier.
Dominic recognized two.
The third face had been scratched out.
Behind the photograph was another code.
D-T-11.
Dining room.
Table.
Eleventh position?
We lifted the heavy dining table.
Underneath, taped to the frame, was a small key.
Not a house key.
A bank key.
Dominic stared at it.
“My mother used the same bank.”
My pulse quickened.
Maybe my mother had hidden proof.
Maybe after fourteen years I could finally learn why she died.
Then a loud crash came from upstairs.
Dominic immediately moved in front of me.
“Stay here.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Elena.”
“If someone is breaking into the house, I’m not standing beside the silverware waiting politely.”
He gave me a look.
“Behind me.”
“Compromise accepted.”
We climbed the staircase.
One bedroom window was open.
Rain blew through the curtains.
No one was inside.
But a drawer had been emptied onto the floor.
Someone had searched Dominic’s room.
Then I saw something on his bed.
A white card.
Dominic picked it up.
Five words were written across it.
SHE SHOULD HAVE STAYED DEAD.
My stomach turned.
May you like
On the back was a second message.
THIS TIME, THE DAUGHTER GOES FIRST.
