Chapter 3 - THE SILVER LOCKET
The silence in the library was deafening.
Camille’s eyes were locked on the silver pendant resting in my palm. The chain was broken, snapped near the clasp.
“Where did this come from?” I asked. My tone was conversational. Mild. But underneath it, a lethal current was rising.
“I… I don’t know,” Camille stammered. Her polished, manipulative veneer cracked for a fraction of a second. “I found it in a box of Isabella’s old clothes. I was going to give it to Rosie.”
A lie.
Isabella never took this locket off. It held a tiny photograph of Jack as a newborn. I had identified my wife’s body at the morgue. Her neck had been bruised, but the necklace was gone.
If Camille had it, someone had taken it from the crash site. Someone on my payroll.
“How thoughtful,” I said, slipping the locket into my pocket.
I didn’t press her. I couldn’t let her know I was hunting. I carried Rosie down the hall, Jack clinging to my side. We bypassed the security detail without a word.
Once inside the children’s suite, I locked the heavy oak door. I checked the vents. The corners. No cameras in here.
I set Rosie on her bed. Naomi slipped into the room through the adjoining bathroom door, carrying two mugs of warm milk.
“Drink,” I told my son.
Jack took the mug with shaking hands. “Dad… Camille said if I told you, you would send me away.”
“Look at me, Jack.” I knelt in front of him. “I will never send you away. I will never let anyone hurt you. Do you understand?”
Rosie sniffled, hugging her damp, crooked rabbit. “Is Camille going to be our new mom?”
“No,” I said. The finality in my voice made Naomi look up.
I stood and pulled my phone from my pocket. I dialed a number I hadn’t called in three years.
A gruff voice answered on the second ring. “Roman. It’s late.”
“Patrick,” I said, speaking to Camille’s father. The head of the Sloane family. “We need to talk. About your daughter.”
There was a heavy pause on the line. “What has she done?”
Patrick didn’t sound defensive. He sounded weary.
“I’m arranging a meeting tomorrow at the downtown shipyard. Noon,” I said. “Just you and me.”
“Understood.” Patrick hung up.
I looked at Naomi. “Patrick doesn’t know what she’s planning. If he did, he would have brought his own men to the city. Camille is running a rogue operation with Arthur.”
Naomi took the empty mugs from the children, pulling the blankets over them.
“There’s something else,” Naomi whispered, stepping close to me. “Arthur left a briefcase in the study this evening. He told Camille to keep it locked until tomorrow.”
I left the children with Naomi and walked silently to my private study.
The lock on the mahogany door was sophisticated, but I had built this house. I bypassed the keypad and stepped inside.
The briefcase sat on my desk. Leather. Brass combination locks.
It took me three minutes to pick the tumblers.
When the lid popped open, I expected to find guardianship papers. Estate transfers.
Instead, I found medical records.
They weren’t Camille’s. They were Isabella’s.
My wife’s toxicology report from the night she died. The official police report said she was sober. But the document in this briefcase showed massive amounts of a paralytic in her bloodstream.
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She hadn’t crashed because she lost control. She was paralyzed behind the wheel.
And clipped to the back of the medical file was a handwritten receipt. Addressed to Arthur Velez. For the purchase of the exact same paralytic.
