Chapter 3 - The Blue Room
The key was hidden behind a portrait of Thomas Hawthorne.
Claire almost laughed when Victoria removed it.
Of course it was.
Every secret in the mansion seemed to be hiding behind another secret.
They climbed to the third floor together.
Claire walked first.
Adrian followed behind her.
Victoria came last.
The hallway narrowed toward the west wing, where the house felt older. Dust softened the corners of the molding. The air smelled faintly of cedar.
At the final door, Victoria stopped.
Blue paint showed beneath years of fading.
Claire touched the brass knob.
Locked.
"Open it," she said.
Victoria handed her the key.
Claire slid it into the lock.
The mechanism resisted.
Then turned.
The room beyond had been preserved.
Not perfectly.
Time had worked its way inside.
Dust covered the dresser.
Curtains had faded.
A rocking chair sat beside a small fireplace.
But the room was unmistakably a nursery.
Claire's throat closed.
A white crib stood against the wall.
Above it, tiny painted stars crossed a pale blue ceiling.
Claire walked inside.
"Was this for me?"
Victoria nodded.
"Thomas had it prepared."
"But my mother planned to leave."
"Thomas didn't know that."
Claire walked toward the crib.
A small stuffed rabbit rested inside.
Its fur had yellowed.
She touched one ear.
Something cracked inside her chest.
"My mother kept nothing from when I was a baby."
Victoria stood at the doorway.
"She couldn't."
Claire turned.
"What does that mean?"
Victoria didn't answer.
Adrian entered and opened the curtains.
Morning-gray moonlight filtered through the glass.
Claire spotted boxes along the wall.
She opened the nearest.
Baby clothes.
Blankets.
Tiny socks.
A silver cup engraved with the initials C.H.
Claire lifted it.
"C.H."
Adrian looked at Victoria.
"Claire Hawthorne."
Claire stared at him.
"No."
"That's what Dad believed your name would be."
Claire put the cup down.
She opened another box.
Photographs.
Her mother.
Pregnant.
Standing in the garden.
Laughing.
Thomas beside her.
Not hiding.
Not sneaking.
His hand rested openly over Anna's stomach.
Claire picked up another photograph.
Adrian as a little boy.
Seven or eight.
Standing beside her mother.
Claire looked at him.
"You knew her."
Adrian took the photograph.
His face changed.
"I..."
"You were old enough."
"I don't remember."
"You're standing next to her."
"I was seven."
"You don't remember a pregnant woman living here?"
"She didn't live here."
Victoria spoke quietly.
"Anna visited."
Claire turned.
"How often?"
Victoria's gaze lowered.
"Often enough."
"While you were married."
"Yes."
"And you allowed this?"
"No."
The bitterness in Victoria's voice surprised Claire.
"I fought it every day."
Claire looked back at the photograph.
Young Adrian was smiling at Anna.
Anna had one hand on his shoulder.
They looked comfortable.
Familiar.
Claire noticed something behind them.
A man.
Only half his body appeared at the edge.
He wore gardener's clothes.
Dark hair.
Broad shoulders.
His face had been cut from the photograph.
Literally.
Someone had taken scissors to it.
"Who is this?"
Victoria saw the photograph.
Her expression changed.
"Where did you find that?"
"Right here."
"Give it to me."
Claire pulled it away.
"No."
Adrian looked at the damaged picture.
"Who is he?"
Victoria walked toward the door.
"Mother."
"I've told you enough."
Claire moved in front of her.
"You haven't told me anything that wasn't dragged out of you."
Victoria's eyes flashed.
"You have no idea what you're asking."
"Then educate me."
"This isn't entertainment, Claire."
"You think I think this is entertainment?"
Her voice broke.
"I buried my mother believing she spent her whole life alone because the man she loved died before I was born."
Victoria flinched.
"I spent every Father's Day pretending it didn't matter. Every school event. Every graduation. Every time somebody asked me who I looked like."
Claire stepped closer.
"And now I'm standing in a nursery built for me by a man who apparently wasn't even my father."
Victoria's eyes filled.
"Then perhaps you should understand why Anna wanted this buried."
"I don't."
"You will."
Claire held up the photograph.
"Who is he?"
Victoria closed her eyes.
"Samuel Reed."
"Who was Samuel Reed?"
"Our groundskeeper."
Claire waited.
Victoria didn't continue.
"And?"
"And Anna loved him."
The room fell silent.
Claire's fingers tightened around the photograph.
"Samuel was my father."
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to."
Victoria looked at Adrian.
He appeared stunned.
Claire felt a strange calm settle over her.
"Where is he?"
Victoria sat slowly in the rocking chair.
"He died."
Claire's calm shattered.
"When?"
"Twenty-seven years ago."
"How?"
Victoria stared at the floor.
"Car accident."
Claire laughed without humor.
"Everybody dies conveniently in this story."
"It wasn't convenient."
"Was it before or after I was born?"
Victoria's face answered first.
Claire whispered, "After."
"Three days after."
Adrian swore under his breath.
Claire sat on the edge of the crib.
Three days.
Her father had lived for three days after she was born.
"Did he know about me?"
Victoria nodded.
"Yes."
"Did he see me?"
Another hesitation.
"Yes."
Claire covered her mouth.
Somewhere inside the misery, that tiny fact mattered.
He had seen her.
Her father had held her.
"What happened?"
Victoria looked toward the window.
"Thomas found out."
Claire slowly lowered her hand.
Adrian stiffened.
"My father?"
"Yes."
"Found out what?"
"That Claire wasn't his."
Claire stared.
"I thought my mother let him believe I was."
"She did. Until the night you were born."
Victoria's voice began to shake.
"Labor frightened her. Pain does strange things to people. Sometimes it makes them lie. Sometimes it makes them finally stop lying."
"What did she say?"
"She told Thomas the truth."
Claire pictured it.
A storm.
A newborn.
Three adults whose lives had collided.
"What did Thomas do?"
"He lost control."
Adrian stepped forward.
"How badly?"
Victoria looked at him.
"Badly enough."
Claire stood.
"What does that mean?"
Victoria swallowed.
"Thomas confronted Samuel."
"Where?"
"On the south road."
"When?"
"The night Samuel died."
Claire stopped breathing.
Adrian stared at his mother.
"Are you saying Dad caused the crash?"
"I don't know."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
Claire's chest tightened.
"Was my mother there?"
"No."
"How do you know?"
"Because she was here with you."
Claire walked away from them.
She needed air.
The room felt smaller with every revelation.
She reached the dresser.
A drawer resisted when she pulled it.
Inside was a stack of envelopes.
One had a name written on it.
Samuel.
Claire opened it.
A photograph fell out.
Not Samuel.
A baby.
Claire.
Wrapped in a blue blanket.
On the back, in Anna's handwriting:
Claire with her father, three hours old.
Claire stared.
The photograph showed Anna in bed.
Claire in her arms.
A man's hand rested beside the baby.
His face was outside the frame.
But his wrist was visible.
A dark birthmark shaped like a crescent.
Claire turned toward Victoria.
"Did Samuel have a birthmark?"
Victoria nodded.
"On his wrist."
Claire closed her eyes.
There it was.
Proof.
Not DNA.
But enough to make her heart believe.
She opened the letter.
It wasn't from Anna.
It was from Samuel.
Anna,
I know Thomas thinks the baby is his. I know you're scared of what will happen when he learns the truth. But I'm done running.
Claire's pulse accelerated.
I have copies of the records. I have enough to prove what he's been doing. Once the baby is safe, I'm going to the police.
Claire stopped.
"What records?"
Victoria stood abruptly.
"Claire."
She looked up.
"What records?"
Victoria said nothing.
Claire kept reading.
If anything happens to me, they're in the old greenhouse wall behind the iron rose.
Claire stared at Adrian.
He was already moving.
"The old greenhouse."
Victoria stepped into his path.
"No."
Adrian looked at her.
"Move."
"That greenhouse was demolished."
"When?"
"Years ago."
"What's there now?"
Victoria's silence lasted too long.
Adrian's eyes narrowed.
"Mother."
Claire knew before Victoria answered.
"The family chapel."
They reached it before dawn.
The Hawthorne chapel stood at the edge of the estate among oak trees.
Claire had seen it from a distance.
Small.
Stone.
Beautiful.
It had been built twenty years earlier.
Exactly where the greenhouse had once stood.
Adrian found the old foundation under the chapel's rear wall.
They searched until Claire spotted it.
An iron rose.
Built into the stone.
Her hands shook as she pressed it.
Nothing.
Adrian pressed harder.
A section of stone shifted.
Behind it was a rusted metal box.
Claire's heart hammered.
Samuel had hidden it twenty-seven years ago.
And it was still there.
Adrian pulled it free.
Inside were documents wrapped in plastic.
Bank statements.
Property transfers.
Checks.
Letters.
And a small cassette tape.
Claire picked up the first document.
Thomas Hawthorne's signature appeared at the bottom.
Beside it were transfers totaling millions.
She didn't understand.
Adrian did.
His face went pale.
"What?"
He took another page.
"These are payments."
"To whom?"
Adrian looked at his mother.
Victoria had followed them into the chapel.
She stood twenty feet away.
Her face seemed carved from stone.
Adrian whispered:
"To judges. City officials. Police."
Claire stared.
"For what?"
Adrian flipped another page.
Then stopped.
There was a report.
An accident report.
Samuel Reed.
The date was three days after Claire's birth.
At the bottom, someone had handwritten:
Driver identity removed per T.H. request.
Claire's ears rang.
"Who was driving?"
Adrian turned the page.
A photograph was clipped behind it.
A damaged black Mercedes.
A license plate.
And beside the wreck stood a young woman wrapped in a blanket.
Blood on her face.
Claire looked closer.
It wasn't her mother.
It was Victoria Hawthorne.
Claire turned slowly.
Victoria's lips parted.
Claire held up the photograph.
"You were in the car."
Victoria said nothing.
"You were there when my father died."
Still nothing.
Claire's voice shook.
"Were you driving?"
Victoria's eyes filled with tears.
And for the first time since Claire met her, the unshakable Victoria Hawthorne looked terrified.
"No."
"Then who was?"
Victoria looked toward Adrian.
Not at him.
Through him.
As if she were seeing another man entirely.
Then she whispered:
May you like
"Thomas."
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