Chapter 4 - WHAT VANESSA FOUND FIRST
I opened the office door so quickly Vanessa nearly fell backward.
She had been standing directly outside.
Of course she had.
“Where is Grandpa’s old violin case?”
Her face changed.
“I don’t know.”
Mom stepped into the hallway.
“Vanessa.”
“I said I don’t know.”
“You took it.”
Vanessa looked at Mom with pure betrayal.
“You told her?”
“You already broke the violin!”
“So now everything is my fault?”
I almost screamed.
Instead, I became very calm.
“What did you find?”
Vanessa looked away.
“Nothing.”
I held out my hand.
“Give it to me.”
“I don’t have it here.”
“Then tell me what was inside.”
She crossed her arms.
That familiar childhood posture.
The one that meant she believed resistance would eventually make everyone tired enough to surrender.
Eleanor Hayes stepped into the hallway.
Vanessa immediately unfolded her arms.
Interesting.
Eleanor said nothing.
She didn’t need to.
Vanessa sighed.
“Letters.”
“What letters?”
“I don’t know.”
“You read them.”
A pause.
“Some.”
“From whom?”
“Some musician.”
My heartbeat changed.
“What musician?”
“I don’t remember.”
She remembered.
I could see it.
“Vanessa.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Fine. A man named Bellini or Bellino or something.”
Julian Rosen, who had followed us out, became completely still.
“What exactly was the name?”
Vanessa looked at him.
“Carlo Bellini?”
Julian frowned.
“That means nothing.”
She shrugged.
“See?”
Then Mom said:
“Carlo Bergonzi.”
Julian’s face changed instantly.
Nobody else moved.
I looked at him.
“Who is Carlo Bergonzi?”
He took a slow breath.
“One of the great Cremonese violin makers of the eighteenth century.”
My mouth went dry.
“Like Stradivari?”
“Different maker. Same city. Same extraordinary tradition.”
Vanessa’s face started losing color.
“No.”
Julian looked at her.
“What did the letter say?”
She stared at the floor.
“I don’t remember.”
“You remembered the name enough for your mother to correct you.”
Still silence.
I stepped closer.
“What did you do with the letters?”
“I put them back.”
“In the case?”
“Yes.”
“And where is the case?”
“At home.”
“Why did you take it?”
Vanessa’s chin lifted.
“I wanted the storage box.”
“What storage box?”
Mom interrupted.
“It’s complicated.”
“Everything becomes complicated right before one of you admits something.”
Mom flinched.
Vanessa snapped:
“I needed something vintage for my apartment.”
I stared at her.
“You took Grandpa’s violin case as decoration?”
“It was sitting in a basement!”
“It belonged to him.”
“He left you everything music-related anyway.”
That sentence landed strangely.
Everything music-related.
I had never heard Grandpa’s will phrased that way.
“What do you mean?”
Vanessa froze.
Mom said quickly, “Claire, the announcement—”
“No.”
I turned toward her.
“What did Grandpa leave me?”
“His violin.”
“What else?”
“Sheet music.”
“What else?”
“Some books.”
Vanessa muttered, “And the trust.”
Mom’s eyes closed.
I stopped breathing.
“What trust?”
Vanessa looked at Mom.
Mom looked like she wanted the floor to open.
I asked again.
“What trust?”
Eleanor watched silently now.
Not interfering.
Just witnessing.
Mom finally whispered:
“Your grandfather created a small education account.”
“For me?”
“Yes.”
“How small?”
She hesitated.
Vanessa answered.
“Two hundred thousand dollars.”
I actually laughed.
It came out sharp and ugly.
“You knew?”
Vanessa folded her arms again.
“Mom said it wasn’t important.”
Two hundred thousand dollars.
Not important.
I had worked twenty hours a week through high school.
Tutored younger students.
Played weddings.
Taught beginner violin lessons.
Applied for every scholarship I could find.
Because my parents repeatedly told me they couldn’t afford serious conservatory tuition.
“Where is it?”
Mom stared at the carpet.
The orchestra manager appeared around the corner.
“Claire, the gala announcement begins in three minutes.”
Nobody moved.
Then my mother whispered:
May you like
“The account is gone.”
And suddenly the broken violin was no longer the only inheritance my family had taken from me.
