Chapter 3 - THE GREENHOUSE SECRET
The mansion was in total lockdown. Outside, the storm raged on, lightning illuminating the grand foyer in sharp, violent flashes.
Thomas and Vanessa had been dragged into separate sitting rooms by security, awaiting the police, who were delayed by the flooded roads. The birthday guests had been ushered into the west wing, murmuring in shocked whispers.
Daniel sat in his study, the doors locked from the inside. Only Sophie and I were allowed in.
The fire crackled in the hearth, casting long shadows across the mahogany bookshelves. Sophie was curled up on the leather sofa, wrapped in my thick wool cardigan, exhausted but refusing to close her eyes. She kept rubbing the small silver locket around her neck.
“The accident,” Daniel muttered, staring at the yellow pawn ticket on his desk. “Claire’s recording said I deserved to know the truth about the accident. She meant the hit-and-run.”
I stood near the fire, warming my hands. “What hit-and-run, Mr. Harrison?”
Daniel rubbed his temples. “Three years ago, before Claire died. A young man on a motorcycle was struck and killed on the highway late at night. The driver fled the scene. The police suspected the vehicle was a luxury SUV based on the paint chips, but they never found it.”
He looked up at me, his eyes hollow. “Thomas drove a black SUV. He reported it stolen the very next morning. I always believed him. But Claire… Claire never liked Thomas.”
“She suspected him,” I said softly.
“She must have found something in his car before he got rid of it,” Daniel said. “Something she pawned to keep safe. The cufflinks. If the police recover them from that shop, they might have the victim's blood on them.”
He slammed his fist on the desk. “But what about the papers? Thomas mentioned papers on the recording.”
Sophie sat up slightly. “Mommy had a secret spot.”
Daniel wheeled his chair around instantly. “What did you say, baby?”
“In her greenhouse,” Sophie said, her voice small but steady. “Mommy used to put things inside the hollow bottom of the big clay pot. The one with the dead roses. She told me it was our treasure chest.”
Daniel looked at me. The old greenhouse was at the far end of the estate gardens. It had been abandoned since Claire died.
“Megan, I need you to go out there,” Daniel said. “Security is watching Thomas and Vanessa. I can't take the wheelchair through the mud in this storm. I need you to find that pot.”
“I’ll go right now,” I said, grabbing a heavy flashlight from the emergency drawer in his desk.
“I want to go too,” Sophie said, slipping off the couch.
“No, sweetheart,” I told her gently. “It’s raining too hard. You stay here and protect your daddy.”
I put on my raincoat and slipped out the back door of the mansion. The wind nearly knocked me over. The rain felt like ice as I trudged across the massive lawn toward the glass structure looming in the darkness.
The greenhouse door was rusted, groaning loudly as I forced it open. Inside, the air was stale and smelled of wet earth and decay. I swept the flashlight beam across the overgrown vines and shattered pots.
In the far corner, covered in spiderwebs, was a massive terracotta pot containing a dead rosebush.
I rushed over, my boots slipping on the damp floor. I tipped the heavy pot onto its side. It crashed against the stones, shattering the false bottom.
A sealed, waterproof manila envelope slid out onto the dirt.
My heart pounded. I wiped the mud off my hands and tore the envelope open.
Inside were bank statements. Transfers from the Harrison Family Charitable Trust to an offshore account in the Cayman Islands. Millions of dollars. The signature on the transfers wasn't Daniel’s. It was Thomas’s.
Thomas had been stealing from the charity. That’s what Claire had found.
But there was something else in the envelope.
A photograph.
I pulled it out, shining my flashlight directly on it. It was a candid picture, taken outside a courthouse.
It showed Thomas Harrison, looking years younger, wrapping his arm around a woman. They were kissing passionately.
The woman was Vanessa.
They weren't just accomplices. They were lovers. And the date stamped on the back of the photo was five years ago—long before Vanessa had ever met Daniel.
Suddenly, a loud crunch of glass echoed behind me.
I spun around, dropping the flashlight. It rolled across the floor, the beam illuminating a pair of expensive leather shoes standing in the doorway.
“You’re a very nosy housekeeper, Megan,” a voice said in the darkness.
May you like
It wasn't Thomas.
It was Dr. Evans, Daniel’s personal physician—the man who prescribed all of Daniel’s medications. And he was holding a heavy iron fireplace poker in his right hand.
