Chapter 3 - THE WOMAN IN THE PAINTING
I stared at the child's drawing, the hairs on my arms standing up.
"What painting, Lily?" Nathaniel asked, his brow furrowing. "There's nothing in the attic but old furniture."
"No," Lily insisted, her voice soft but firm. "Behind the heavy mirror. Victoria locked me up there yesterday when she didn't want to deal with me. I found it."
My heart hammered against my ribs. Victoria had locked an eight-year-old child in an attic? I saw Nathaniel’s jaw clench so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek. He looked like he wanted to chase Victoria's car down the driveway and rip the doors off.
"Take us there," Eleanor commanded from her wheelchair. Her voice was surprisingly strong.
Ten minutes later, we were on the third floor of the sprawling Whitmore estate. The air up here was thick with dust and the smell of old cedar. Nathaniel pushed his grandmother's chair, while Lily held tightly to my left hand—the one with the burn mark Victoria had mocked. The child didn't care about my unpolished nails. She just held on like I was an anchor.
We navigated past draped furniture to the back wall, where a massive, heavy mirror leaned against the floorboards. Nathaniel set his shoulder against it and pushed it aside.
Behind it was a rectangular canvas, covered with a moth-eaten sheet.
Nathaniel pulled the fabric away.
I stopped breathing.
It was an oil painting, vibrant and incredibly detailed. In it sat Eleanor Whitmore, young and radiant in a hospital bed, holding a newborn baby. Standing right beside her, leaning in close with a bright, exhausted smile, was a Black woman in a 1950s nurse’s uniform.
It was my mother. Ruth.
But it wasn't the pose of a servant and an elite patient. My mother had her arm wrapped casually around Eleanor’s shoulder. Their heads were tilted together, intimate and joyful. And resting against my mother's collarbone, painted in meticulous detail, was the gold locket I now wore.
"They were friends," I whispered, the realization crashing over me. "Not just patient and nurse."
"We were best friends," Eleanor said, her voice cracking as she stared at the canvas. "We met in a community sewing circle when we were nineteen. It was scandalous back then, a Whitmore girl and a Black nursing student. So we kept it quiet. But she was the sister of my heart."
I turned to her, my mind spinning. "If you were so close... why did I never know you? Why did she never mention your name? After the fire, you just parted ways?"
Eleanor’s eyes dropped to her lap. "She didn't just save my life in that fire, Amara. She saved my family's legacy. And it cost her everything."
Before she could explain, Nathaniel’s phone buzzed sharply in his pocket. He checked the screen, and his face drained of color.
"Victoria," he muttered.
"What did she do?" I asked.
Nathaniel looked at me, a deep apology in his eyes. "She just leaked a story to the Charleston Chronicle. She claims the caterers tonight attempted to steal Whitmore heirlooms, and that I called off the wedding to avoid a public scandal. She named your company, Amara. She named you."
A cold wave of dread washed over me. My boss was already angry that I had caused a scene. This would ruin the business. It would ruin my livelihood.
"I have to make a call," Nathaniel said, stepping away into the hallway. "I won't let her do this."
Eleanor reached into the pocket of her pale blue jacket. Her hand was shaking violently as she pulled out a small, tarnished silver key on a faded ribbon.
"I was going to give this to you tomorrow," Eleanor whispered, offering it to me. "I found out a week ago that the catering company hired for the gala was the one you worked for. I specifically requested you, Amara. I needed to see Ruth's daughter."
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I took the key. It was heavy and cold. "What does it open?"
"Ruth's old cedar box. She left it with me the night she disappeared from my life," Eleanor said. "But Victoria found out about it. She’s been tearing this house apart looking for it. Amara, whatever is in that box... Victoria believes it gives her ownership of this estate."
