Chapter 20 - THE GREENHOUSE DRAWER
Evan climbed the basement stairs with Grace following close behind, every step silent and measured. The house seemed completely different now; it was no longer a home, but a hollow carcass filled with hidden shafts, listening posts, and unseen conspirators.
The rain was lashing the glass roof of the Victorian greenhouse on the west side of the manor. Evan moved through the dark conservatory, smelling damp soil, potting peat, and the heavy sweetness of blooming jasmine.
He reached Charles’s work desk in the potting shed. It was an ancient oak drafting table where his father spent hours trimming orchids.
Evan didn't hesitate. He pulled out the bottom drawer, wedged the crowbar underneath the inner pine panel, and pried upward with all his strength.
The false bottom gave way with a splintering crack.
Inside lay three thick manila envelopes tied with wax-sealed cords, and a heavy brass ring holding four small, vintage skeleton keys.
Grace illuminated the contents with her flashlight.
The first envelope contained the bearer bonds mentioned on the recording—nearly four million dollars in municipal paper, untraceable, payable to whoever presented them at a private counter in Zurich.
The second envelope was labeled: *CAROLINE - INCIDENT REPORT (CONFIDENTIAL)*.
Evan's fingers shook violently as he tore open the envelope. Inside were police transcripts that had never been filed in the county registry, signed by Gregory Shaw, the former sheriff who had handled the investigation into Caroline’s death.
Evan read the pathologist’s preliminary notes:
*'Subject Caroline Whitaker. Water in lungs consistent with drowning. However, ligature contusions visible on both wrists. Subungual debris under subject’s fingernails contains skin fragments from an individual with high blood type O positive. Sheriff Shaw instructed laboratory to discard sample 14-B per request of Charles Whitaker.'*
Evan dropped the paper onto the desk.
"Caroline didn't fall," he whispered, the world turning pitch black around him. "She was held under."
"Evan," Grace warned suddenly, her hand snapping onto his arm. "Someone is outside."
Through the rain-streaked glass panels of the greenhouse, headlights swept across the gravel driveway. A dark European sedan had pulled into the courtyard with its lights dimmed to amber parking markers.
The driver’s door opened.
A woman in a heavy trench coat stepped out, holding an umbrella against the gale.
May you like
It was not Vanessa.
It was Madeline Rowan.
