Chapter 6 - THE WOODEN ROSARY
Alexander hit Richard with the force of a freight train.
The silver cane clattered across the marble floor. Richard, despite his tailored suit and arrogant posture, was an older man, and he crumpled under Alexander’s weight.
“You killed her!” Alexander roared, his hands wrapping around Richard’s throat. “You terrified an innocent woman to death!”
“Alexander, stop!” Margaret screamed, rushing forward. “You’ll kill him! He’s not worth it!”
I stood frozen in shock, Mia clutching my leg, burying her face against my apron. I couldn't look away. The man who had haunted my mother’s nightmares, the man who had effectively murdered her with fear, was turning purple under Alexander’s grip.
Richard thrashed, his polished leather shoes slipping on the spilled wine. His hands clawed at Alexander’s wrists, gasping for air.
Vanessa didn't move to help. She sat on the floor, watching with wide, terrified eyes.
“Stop!” I yelled, my voice finally breaking through my paralyzed throat. “Alexander, stop! Please, my daughter is watching!”
At the sound of Mia’s name, Alexander froze.
His massive shoulders heaved as he fought for control. Slowly, agonizingly, he released his grip on his uncle’s neck and stood up, backing away.
Richard rolled onto his side, coughing violently, hacking up spit and blood onto the pristine white floor. He clutched his throat, his eyes watery and wild.
Margaret grabbed Alexander’s arm, pulling him back. “Let the police handle him, Alexander. We have a confession. We have Vanessa as a witness.”
Richard let out a wheezing, ugly laugh from the floor.
“A witness?” Richard croaked, sitting up slowly and adjusting his ruined silk tie. “Vanessa is a thief and the daughter of a murderer. Who will the police believe? A billionaire board member, or a gold-digging fraud from Queens?”
He looked at me, his lips curling into a bloody sneer.
“There is no proof, Olivia. Thomas is dead. Your mother is dead. Edward is dead. It’s just my word against a room full of hysterics.”
He reached for his silver cane, using it to pull himself to his feet. He swayed slightly, but his arrogance remained untouched.
“I’m leaving,” Richard announced, wiping blood from his chin with his silk pocket square. “And if any of you try to stop me, I’ll bury you all in litigation until you’re bankrupt.”
He turned to walk away.
“Wait,” Mia’s tiny voice echoed in the silent room.
Richard stopped. He didn't turn around, but his shoulders stiffened.
Mia let go of my leg and took two steps forward. She was staring at the floor where Richard had been tackled.
Lying in a puddle of spilled red wine was the wooden rosary. It had dropped from Richard’s pocket during the struggle.
“Mia, come back here,” I said gently, reaching for her.
But Mia bent down and picked up the rosary. Her little fingers wiped the wine off the olive wood beads.
“Mommy, look,” Mia said, holding it up. “It’s broken.”
I walked over and knelt beside her. The force of the fall had cracked the wooden crucifix at the bottom of the rosary. The wood was split right down the middle of the cross.
I reached out to take it from her, but as I touched the broken wood, something cold and metallic poked against my finger.
I froze.
I pulled the two halves of the broken wooden cross apart.
Hidden inside the hollowed-out center of the cross was a tiny, intricate brass key.
Margaret gasped loudly.
Richard spun around. When he saw the key gleaming in my hand, the smug arrogance completely vanished from his face. For the first time all night, Uncle Richard looked genuinely terrified.
“Give that to me,” Richard demanded, taking a heavy step toward me.
Alexander immediately stepped between us, his fists raised. “Don't take another step.”
I stared at the tiny brass key. “What is this? Why was this inside my mother’s rosary?”
Margaret walked toward me, her eyes wide with disbelief. She reached out with a trembling hand and touched the key.
“It’s a vault key,” Margaret whispered. “From the old Bank of New York. They stopped making these specific keys forty years ago.”
“Give it to me!” Richard yelled, his composure completely shattering. He lunged forward, swinging his heavy silver cane at Alexander’s head.
Alexander ducked, catching the cane with his forearm. He grabbed the silver handle, twisted it violently, and yanked it out of Richard’s grip. He threw the cane across the room, where it shattered a mirrored pillar.
“Stay down!” Alexander roared, shoving Richard hard in the chest.
Richard stumbled and fell backward into a table, sending a cascade of plates crashing to the floor.
I looked at Margaret. “Why did my mother have a vault key?”
Margaret’s eyes filled with tears. “She didn't. Edward did. This is Edward’s private lockbox key. He must have given it to Elizabeth before she left.”
“He did,” Vanessa spoke up from the floor, her voice hollow. We all turned to look at her. “My father told me before he died. When he pulled Edward out of the wrecked car, Edward was still conscious. He begged my father to take the briefcase to Elizabeth. He said the key to their future was in her hands.”
I looked at the rosary. My mother prayed with this every night. She never knew the key to the empire was hidden inside the very cross she kissed before bed.
“What is in the vault, Richard?” Alexander asked, walking slowly toward his uncle, who was cowering against the broken table. “If the new will was in the briefcase, what is in the lockbox?”
Richard pressed his hands against his face, letting out a pathetic sob.
“The proof,” Richard whimpered.
“Proof of what?” I asked.
Richard looked up at me, his eyes bloodshot and defeated.
“Proof that I paid your mother’s doctor to ignore her failing heart,” Richard confessed, his voice barely a whisper. “Proof that I paid the mechanic to ignore the cut brakes on Edward’s car. Proof that I have been stealing from the Whitmore company for thirty years.”
The room went dead silent.
Richard wasn't just a parasite. He was a monster.
“And there’s one more thing in that vault,” Richard whispered, looking at Alexander.
“What?” Alexander demanded.
“The tape,” Richard said, his voice cracking. “Security footage from the estate garage. The footage of the person who actually cut the brakes on Edward’s car.”
Vanessa scrambled to her feet, her face pale with terror. “No! My father cut the brakes! You said my father cut the brakes!”
Richard looked at Vanessa, a sick, cruel smile returning to his bloody lips.
“Your father was a drunk coward, Valerie,” Richard sneered. “He didn't have the guts to cut those brakes. He just took the fall because someone paid him to.”
“Who?!” Alexander roared.
Richard pointed a trembling finger toward the back of the room.
“Her,” Richard said.
We all turned.
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Standing in the doorway, dressed in a black coat, was a woman who was supposed to have died ten years ago.
Eleanor Whitmore. Alexander’s mother.
