The Cost of Ivory

I strapped Leo into his car seat in the back of my SUV. My mind was racing, piecing together a horrifying puzzle I hadn't even known I was a part of. Florence had a flight booked for tonight. She was never going to be my wife. The wedding was a distraction.

“We’re going to Mommy’s house, Leo,” I said, starting the engine.

I broke three traffic laws getting to Christina’s apartment complex. The entire drive, I kept glancing in the rearview mirror at my grandson. He was unusually quiet, clutching the seatbelt.

When we reached Christina’s floor, the hallway was silent. I used the spare key she had given me for emergencies. The deadbolt was unlocked.

I pushed the door open.

“Christina?” I called out.

The apartment was a wreck. The entryway rug was bunched up against the wall. A side table was overturned, magazines scattered across the hardwood floor.

“Mommy?” Leo called out, his little voice trembling.

“Stay right behind me, Leo,” I instructed, my heart hammering against my ribs.

I walked into the living room. On the floor, near the window, lay the remains of a carved wooden music box. I had bought it in Switzerland thirty years ago for Christina. It was smashed to pieces, the tiny metal gears exposed and twisted.

Florence had been here. The video on the USB drive was recorded right in this room.

I guided Leo to the kitchen island, lifting him onto a stool. “Stay right here, buddy. Let Grandpa look around.”

I walked toward Christina’s bedroom. The bed was unmade. Her closet door was open, but her suitcases were still on the top shelf. She hadn’t packed to leave.

On her nightstand, I noticed her daily pill organizer was flipped upside down. Beside it sat a crumpled piece of thermal paper. I smoothed it out. It was a pharmacy receipt from two days ago. The purchase was for a heavy, prescription-grade sedative. The signature at the bottom wasn’t Christina’s.

It was Florence’s.

I felt sick. I pulled out the laptop I had grabbed from the hotel and plugged in the USB drive again, right there on Christina’s dresser. I needed to see what else I had missed in my panic.

I opened the audio file. It was a recorded phone call. Florence’s voice came through clear and cold.

“The transfer clears on Friday during the reception. He’ll be completely distracted. Once the signature is verified, we wire it offshore. Have you handled his daughter?”

A man’s voice replied. “She’s taken care of. But she fought back. It got messy.”

I knew that voice. It was deep, slightly raspy, with a distinct Boston accent.

Arthur. My accountant. The man who had managed my private wealth for fifteen years. The man who had introduced me to Florence at a charity gala two years ago.

They had orchestrated this from the very beginning.

I closed the laptop, a heavy realization settling over me. Florence and Arthur had drugged my daughter to stop her from exposing the forged documents.

I rushed back into the kitchen. Leo was sitting exactly where I left him, but he was holding something he had pulled from his jacket pocket.

“Grandpa,” Leo said softly. “Mommy dropped this when the bad man carried her.”

I took the object from his small hand. It was a plastic hospital identification bracelet. It had been cut with scissors.

The name printed on it was Christina Prescott.

The date of admission was yesterday.