Chapter 3 - THE EMPTY SAFE
Julian held the plane ticket in the air.
“Leaving for a sudden vacation?” he asked coldly.
Beatrice’s lips trembled. “It’s a shopping trip.”
“With no return flight?” Julian dropped the ticket onto the marble floor. “Walk. Now.”
He marched Beatrice down the long hallway toward the east wing.
I stayed in the foyer with Margaret.
My heart was beating so fast I could hear it in my ears.
“Are you alright, ma’am?” I asked, kneeling beside her wheelchair.
Margaret nodded slowly. “I am, Clara. Thank you. You were very brave to stand up to her.”
“She shouldn’t have touched you.”
“She is a desperate woman,” Margaret said softly. “And desperate women do terrible things.”
Ten minutes passed.
The silence in the mansion was deafening.
Then, I heard heavy footsteps returning.
Julian walked back into the foyer.
He was alone.
His face was completely drained of color.
He didn’t look angry anymore. He looked devastated.
“Sir?” I stood up. “Where is Mrs. Beatrice?”
“In the study,” Julian said, his voice hollow.
He walked over to his mother. He knelt in front of her wheelchair, just as I had done moments before.
He opened his hands.
In his palms sat a faded, black-and-white photograph.
And a small, velvet jewelry box.
“Mom,” Julian choked out. “The safe was empty. There was no will.”
Margaret’s eyes widened in genuine shock. “What? That’s impossible. I put it there myself.”
“There was only this,” Julian said.
He opened the velvet box.
Inside sat a stunning, heavy sapphire necklace.
I recognized it immediately from the news reports last year.
It was Beatrice’s prized heirloom. The one that was stolen during a break-in while they were at a gala. The insurance company had paid out six million dollars for it.
Julian looked at his mother.
“Beatrice didn’t have the keys,” he whispered. “You did. You had the key in your cane the whole time. So how did this get in your safe?”
Margaret stared at the sapphire.
“Julian, I swear to you, I have never seen that inside my safe.”
“Then why was it there?” Julian’s voice cracked. “Beatrice says you stole it. She says you orchestrated the fake robbery to get the insurance money because Dad left you nothing. She says you’re framing her.”
I stepped forward. “Sir, that makes no sense. Why would she keep the key in her cane if she was hiding stolen goods?”
Julian looked at the black-and-white photograph.
He turned it around so we could see it.
It was a picture of Margaret, decades younger, holding a baby.
But it wasn’t Julian.
On the back, written in Margaret’s handwriting, were the words: My beautiful Arthur.
“Who is Arthur, Mom?” Julian asked, his voice breaking.
Margaret let out a ragged sob and covered her face with her hands.
Before she could answer, Beatrice strolled into the foyer.
May you like
She had her phone back—a second phone I hadn’t seen before.
“Arthur is the son she abandoned,” Beatrice sneered. “And he’s the man who helped me open that safe three hours ago.”
