Chapter 3 - SEVEN YEARS LATER
Seven years after the divorce, I had learned to recognize trouble by the
way it entered a room. Sometimes it arrived in an expensive suit.
Sometimes it came as a polite email from a lawyer. Sometimes it looked
like a familiar family crest engraved on an object that should have been
ordinary.
The music box sat on my workbench for three days before I opened it.
Under magnification, I saw that the key and three stars were not a
modern copy of the Whitmore crest. They were an older version, used
before the company changed its identity. The scratched message had been
made with a fine tool.
“Beneath the Blue Room,” I repeated.
Lily leaned over the bench. “Is that a real room?”
“I don’t know.”
Noah had already found the answer online. “The Whitmore estate has a
Blue Room. It’s in the old wing.”
I closed the browser. “We are not going to the estate because of a
message scratched into a music box.”
“Why not?” Lily asked.
“Because the Whitmores have a complicated history with our family.”
The following week, a museum curator contacted me about a private
restoration commission. Whitmore Holdings had acquired a collection of
nineteenth-century paintings and needed an expert to assess damage
before an anniversary exhibition.
I almost declined. Then I saw the inventory list.
One painting was titled The Founder’s Promise. It had been kept in the
Whitmore estate for generations. The description mentioned a concealed
inscription beneath the lower layer of blue pigment.
I accepted the assessment, insisting on written authorization to
document every stage.
The twins came with me on the first day because school was closed. The
Blue Room smelled of cedar and dust. A stern man in a dark coat stood in
the painting above a desk, one hand resting on a leather ledger. Behind
him, a window opened onto a harbor.
Lily studied his face. “He looks sad.”
“Portraits don’t always show what people felt,” I said.
Noah walked around the frame. “There’s a keyhole.”
Near the lower right corner, hidden beneath the carved edge, was a small
brass fitting. It matched the symbol on the music box.
Before I could examine it, Vanessa entered.
She was older but still elegant, wearing a cream suit and a smile that
did not reach her eyes.
“Claire. How unexpected.”
“I was hired to assess the painting.”
“I know. I approved the commission.”
Her gaze returned to the brass fitting. “That section is not part of the
restoration. Leave it alone.”
“I haven’t touched it.”
“Good. Some family objects are better left undisturbed.”
Noah looked up. “Why does the painting have a keyhole?”
Vanessa’s smile vanished.
“Because it’s old,” she said sharply. “Now, please take them
downstairs.”
I looked at her. “Why are you afraid of a keyhole?”
For a moment, the room seemed to lose its air.
Then Vanessa stepped toward the painting and placed her hand over the
May you like
brass fitting.
“Because some doors,” she whispered, “should never be opened.”
