Chapter 3 - THE MISTRESS WHO KNEW TOO MUCHVanessa Cole had been sleeping with my husband for nearly three years.
At least, that was the version she'd confessed when I confronted them.
Now, sitting in a courthouse interview room with mascara streaking down her cheeks, she looked like someone who regretted far more than an affair.
"I never said my mother was alive," she snapped.
Daniel stood near the door.
"Then what exactly did you tell the officer?"
Vanessa folded her arms.
"I said I knew what happened to her."
"And?"
"And that's none of your business."
I stood across the table from her.
For years, Vanessa had enjoyed humiliating me.
She'd left lipstick marks on Jason's shirts.
Sent photographs from hotel rooms.
Called me from his telephone to ask whether I wanted him home for dinner.
Once, at a charity gala, she'd leaned close enough for me to smell her expensive perfume.
"Some women know when it's time to make room for someone younger," she'd whispered.
I hadn't responded.
Now I looked at her trembling hands.
"Your mother tried to help me," I said.
Vanessa's eyes snapped toward mine.
"Don't talk about my mother."
"She witnessed what Jason did at Blackwood House."
"You don't know anything."
"Then tell me."
She laughed bitterly.
"Why? So you can get your precious husband arrested and leave me with nothing?"
I sat down.
"Vanessa, he already left you with nothing."
Her expression darkened.
"What?"
"He's been transferring assets out of accounts connected to you for months."
"You're lying."
I looked at Daniel.
He removed a document from his folder and placed it on the table.
Vanessa stared at the first page.
Her name appeared above the title:
PERSONAL GUARANTY AGREEMENT
"What is this?" she asked.
"A loan document," Daniel said. "One apparently signed electronically using your identity."
Vanessa grabbed it.
Her eyes moved rapidly across the page.
Twenty million dollars.
Secured against a complicated network of property interests.
The signature date was four months earlier.
She shook her head.
"I never signed this."
"That's what we suspected," Daniel replied.
"But Jason has represented to lenders that you guaranteed certain obligations."
Vanessa looked sick.
"He said he was putting everything in my name because we were going to get married."
I felt a familiar sadness.
Not sympathy for what she'd done.
But recognition.
Jason had always been generous with promises and ruthless with paperwork.
"He told me the mansion would be mine," Vanessa whispered.
"He told me he'd buy us a place in France."
I leaned forward.
"Did he tell you why he wanted me out of the house before Friday?"
She looked away.
"Because you were being difficult."
"No."
"Then why?"
"Because there's something in that house he wants to destroy."
Her eyes widened.
It was a tiny movement.
But I saw it.
"What is it, Vanessa?"
She stared at the document.
"I don't know."
"Please."
She gripped the edge of the table.
"Jason said you were hiding something."
Daniel moved closer.
"What did he say?"
Vanessa swallowed.
"He said your sister stole something valuable before she died. Something that could make him lose everything."
My heartbeat quickened.
"Did he tell you what?"
"No."
She hesitated.
"He called it the Blackwood ledger."
The room went silent.
I had never heard those exact words.
But something about them made a long-buried memory stir.
Rebecca.
A kitchen table.
A stack of documents.
Her finger pointing to a list of names.
Emily, they're not just stealing money.
I closed my eyes.
For a fraction of a second, I could almost hear her.
They're stealing people's futures.
Daniel pulled out his notebook.
"Vanessa, where is your mother?"
She covered her face.
For a long moment, I thought she wouldn't answer.
Then she whispered, "A care facility in Vermont."
I stared.
"She's alive?"
Vanessa nodded.
"She had a stroke eight years ago. She can speak a little, but her memory comes and goes."
"Why was she reported missing?"
"Because she changed her name."
"Why?"
Vanessa looked directly at me.
"Because she was afraid of your husband."
A cold sensation spread through my chest.
"Then why did you become involved with him?"
Tears filled her eyes.
"Because I didn't know who he was when we first met."
I almost laughed.
"Three years, Vanessa. You've been with him for three years."
"I found out later."
"And you stayed?"
Her expression hardened.
"You think I don't know what kind of man he is?"
"Then why?"
She lowered her voice.
"Because he threatened to stop paying for my mother's care."
I stared at her.
Jason had found another hostage.
Different circumstances.
Same method.
Control the money.
Create the fear.
Then convince the victim that survival depends on obedience.
But Vanessa had still made choices.
She had stolen from me.
Humiliated me.
Helped Jason conceal financial records.
And knowingly continued his campaign to strip me of my home.
I wasn't going to pretend those choices didn't matter.
"Whatever he threatened," I said, "you helped him hurt me."
She flinched.
"I know."
"Then you need to decide whether you're going to keep helping him."
Daniel closed his folder.
"Vanessa, your lawyer should be present before you make any formal statement. We aren't asking you to waive your rights. But if you have information about an unresolved death, you need to preserve it and speak with the appropriate investigators."
She wiped her cheeks.
"And if Jason finds out?"
I looked at her.
"He already knows you're frightened."
She said nothing.
"He just doesn't know whether you're finally frightened enough to tell the truth."
A knock interrupted us.
A court officer informed Daniel that Jason's attorney had requested an emergency conference.
Jason was claiming I had staged the entire hearing.
He had also accused Daniel of orchestrating a scheme to extort money from him.
"Of course he has," Daniel muttered.
I rose.
"Let's go."
Vanessa grabbed my wrist.
"Emily."
I stopped.
Her fingers were cold.
"There's something else."
I looked back.
"What?"
"The box."
My breath caught.
"What box?"
"The one your sister's things came in."
"How do you know about that?"
Vanessa swallowed.
"Jason told me somebody sent it to you."
My voice dropped.
"Who?"
She shook her head.
"He said he thought he'd gotten rid of everything."
I pulled my hand away.
"Vanessa, what do you know?"
She looked toward the closed door.
Then whispered, "I was at the house the night your package arrived."
I remembered that evening.
Jason had been away on business.
Or so he'd told me.
Vanessa continued.
"I heard him speaking on the phone. He was furious."
"What did he say?"
"He said, 'If she finds the second box, we're finished.'"
The words hit me harder than I expected.
A second box.
I had spent six months examining every scrap of paper Rebecca's first package contained.
I had searched the Internet.
Requested court records.
Contacted old acquaintances.
Hired Daniel.
And now I learned there might be more.
"Where is it?" I asked.
"I don't know."
"Did he say?"
Vanessa shook her head.
"Only that it was still somewhere on the property."
I felt the room narrow around me.
Our mansion contained thirty-two rooms.
Three garages.
A wine cellar.
A detached carriage house.
And an old greenhouse Jason had forbidden me from entering after my accident.
I looked at Daniel.
He was already taking notes.
"Emily," he said, "do not go back there yourself."
I understood why.
But a terrible thought had already formed.
If Jason believed the second box was somewhere in our home, he'd do anything to find it.
And after today's hearing, he knew his secrets were in danger.
The courthouse conference lasted nearly two hours.
Judge Whitcomb formally disclosed her connection to the old investigation, referred the disputed issues for reassignment, and directed that the existing preservation orders remain in place pending further review.
She also arranged for the court record concerning my allegations to be transmitted through proper channels to investigators.
Jason left furious.
He couldn't force an immediate property ruling.
He couldn't make my evidence disappear simply by calling me unstable.
And, most importantly, he couldn't pretend the Blackwood investigation had never existed.
At four fifteen that afternoon, Daniel drove me to a safe apartment he'd arranged through a domestic violence support organization.
I sat beside the window while rain began to fall.
For the first time in months, I was alone.
Not watched.
Not ordered around.
Not afraid of footsteps in the hallway.
At least, that's what I told myself.
My phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
A photograph appeared.
It showed my old bedroom in the Greenwich mansion.
The closet doors stood open.
My clothes were scattered across the floor.
And in the center of the photograph was Rebecca's silver necklace.
Underneath, someone had written:
YOU FOUND THE FIRST BOX.
A second message arrived.
STOP LOOKING FOR THE OTHER ONE.
Then a third.
OR YOU'LL FIND OUT WHAT REALLY HAPPENED TO YOUR SISTER.
I stared at the screen.
For ten years, Jason had convinced me that my sister's death was an accident.
Now somebody was threatening me with the truth.
I immediately forwarded the messages to Daniel.
He called within seconds.
"Emily, lock the door."
"It's locked."
"Don't answer it for anyone."
"Daniel—"
"Listen to me. I've spoken with an investigator. Someone is coming to take a formal report."
I looked at the photograph again.
A strange detail caught my attention.
Rebecca's necklace was lying on a wooden table.
But the wood grain looked wrong.
Our bedroom furniture was white.
The surface in the picture was dark oak.
And behind the necklace, barely visible at the edge of the frame, was a small brass hinge.
I enlarged the image.
The hinge was attached to something rectangular.
Something with a narrow drawer.
I knew that furniture.
I had designed it myself.
An antique-style writing desk.
I'd given it to Jason for our fifth wedding anniversary.
And six months after Rebecca died, he'd moved it out of our bedroom and into the old greenhouse.
I called Daniel back.
"I know where we need to look."
"Emily—"
"The greenhouse."
There was a pause.
"Why?"
"Because that's where Jason keeps the desk."
Another pause.
Then Daniel asked, "What desk?"
I looked at the photograph.
"The one with the hidden compartment."
I had never told Jason about that compartment.
I'd built it as a surprise.
A private space for letters and keepsakes.
He had laughed when I gave him the desk.
Called it beautiful.
Promised he'd use it every day.
But he'd never known what was hidden beneath the bottom drawer.
If someone had placed Rebecca's second box inside it, Jason might have searched that desk for years without discovering the secret.
I felt a flicker of hope.
Then my phone rang again.
This time, the caller ID displayed a name I hadn't seen in nearly a decade.
DR. NATHANIEL PRICE
The physician who had treated me after Blackwood House.
The doctor whose original notes contradicted Jason's story.
I answered.
"Dr. Price?"
A man's voice came through, low and urgent.
"Emily, this is Nathaniel."
My hands tightened around the phone.
"I remember you."
"I'm glad."
He took a breath.
"Your attorney contacted me last week. I told him I had the original medical records."
"Yes."
"But there's something I didn't tell him."
My chest tightened.
"What?"
"I wasn't the only doctor who treated you."
I waited.
"There was another physician at Blackwood House."
"Who?"
Dr. Price's voice shook.
"Your husband's father."
I stared at the rain.
Jason had told me his father died when he was seventeen.
Now I was learning that his father might have been alive when I was twenty-eight.
May you like
And worse—
That he might have helped my husband cover up what happened to me.
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