Chapter 8: The Music Box
By sunrise, I had made three decisions.
I would not tell the police.
I would not return to the estate alone.
And I would find out what was hidden beneath the music box before midnight.
The third decision proved harder than the others.
Margaret drove me to a motel on the outskirts of Santa Rosa, where we rented a room under a false name. I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the photograph of my father, while Margaret paced between the window and the bathroom.
“Your mother said to look beneath your birthday,” she murmured.
“That could mean anything.””
“It means the music box.””
“How do you know?””
“Because it's the only thing she left me that I never understood.””
Margaret stopped pacing.
“Your father made that box himself. He gave it to you when you were eight.””
“No. You gave it to me when I turned eighteen.””
She stared at me.
Then she slowly shook her head.
“I gave you the box your father made. I never opened it.””
I looked at her.
“Why did you keep it?””
“Because I promised him I would.””
I felt a chill move down my spine.
“Promised him what?””
“That if anything happened to him, I'd give you the box when you were old enough to understand.””
I stood.
“Then why didn't you tell me?””
“Because I was afraid.””
“Of Richard?””
She nodded.
“And of what was inside.””
For the first time, her fear seemed genuine in a way that had nothing to do with protecting herself.
I reached into my bag and removed the small wooden box.
It was made from dark walnut, with delicate carvings of grapevines along its lid. A tiny brass keyhole sat beneath the clasp. The music mechanism had stopped working years ago, but I had never thrown it away.
My father had carved my initials into the bottom.
E.V.
I turned it over.
There was a seam along the base, almost invisible beneath the varnish.
“Do you have a knife?”” I asked.
Margaret handed me a small pocketknife from her handbag.
I slid the blade into the seam and gently twisted.
The wooden panel lifted.
Inside lay a folded document, a small silver bracelet, and a photograph.
I reached for the photograph first.
Two little girls stood beside my mother in front of the vineyard house. One was me. The other was slightly older, with the same dark eyes and the same crooked smile.
The girl wore a silver bracelet engraved with a golden falcon.
Isabella.
On the back, my father had written:
Two daughters. One promise. Never let them grow up believing they were alone.
My vision blurred.
I unfolded the document.
It was a copy of a legal trust agreement, stamped by a California notary and dated three months before my father's death. The beneficiary was Isabella Valmont.
But a handwritten clause at the bottom changed everything.
Should Isabella be missing, presumed dead, or legally unable to claim her inheritance, the trust shall remain dormant until both daughters are reunited.
Both daughters.
Not one.
My father had altered the arrangement.
If Isabella was alive, the trust required us to reunite before either of us could claim it.
If she was missing, the estate remained frozen.
Richard had no legal right to sell the vineyard, transfer the controlling shares, or use the Valmont name to secure his business debts.
I read the clause twice.
“He's been stealing everything,” I whispered.
Margaret sat beside me.
“Yes.””
“And if Isabella is alive, she can take it all back.””
“Not alone,” Margaret said.
“You must both appear before the trustee.””
I looked at the photograph.
“Who is the trustee?””
She pointed to the final line of the document.
A name was written in elegant black ink.
*Dr. Samuel Hargrove.*
I recognized it.
He had been my father's personal attorney, the man who attended the funeral and later disappeared from public life. I remembered my aunt telling me he had suffered a heart attack shortly after the estate was sold.
“Is he alive?””
Margaret nodded.
“He lives outside Sacramento. Richard tried to buy him off, but Samuel refused.””
“Then we need to find him.””
She shook her head.
“Evelyn, the message said to bring the key to the fermentation room tonight. Richard has your father.””
“And if we don't go, he'll kill him.””
“It's a trap.””
“I know.””
“Then why are you considering it?””
I looked at the photograph of my father.
“Because if Richard wants the key, it means he still needs something from the vault. And if he needs something, we can use it against him.””
Margaret studied me for a long moment.
Then she reached into her coat and pulled out a small black object.
It was an old handheld recorder.
“I took this from Richard's office twelve years ago,” she said.
“I never listened to it.””
“Why?””
“Because I was afraid it would prove I helped him.””
She placed it in my hand.
“Your father left it in the study. Richard wanted it destroyed, but I hid it before he could find it.””
I pressed the power button.
A burst of static filled the motel room.
Then a man's voice emerged.
My grandfather's voice.
“Lorenzo has become a problem. He refuses to surrender the formula, and the girl is beginning to ask questions.””
Another voice answered.
Richard.
“What about the trust?””
“It remains in Isabella's name. As long as she's alive, the vineyard cannot be sold without the trustee's approval.””
“Then we need to find her.””
“No,” my grandfather said.
“We need to make sure nobody can prove she exists.””
My blood ran cold.
The recording continued.
Richard spoke again.
“And the other daughter?””
“Evelyn is useful. Lorenzo would burn the world to protect her. Keep her close to Margaret, and he'll stay where we want him.””
I stopped the recording.
Margaret was crying silently.
“They used me,” she whispered.
“They used all of us.””
I rewound the tape and listened again, focusing on the background.
Beneath the voices, a faint metallic clanging repeated at regular intervals.
Three knocks.
Then three more.
I looked at Margaret.
“That's the cellar.””
She nodded slowly.
“Vault 17.””
My father had been sending a signal from somewhere beneath the estate.
The recording was dated twelve years earlier, but the sound was unmistakable.
Someone had been trapped behind the iron door.
And someone had been trying to reach them.
I checked the time.
Eight forty-seven p.m.
We had three hours before midnight.
I called the number that had sent the photograph.
A man answered immediately.
“You have the key?””
“Yes.””
“Bring it to the fermentation room.””
“I want to speak to my father.””
A pause.
Then a familiar voice came through the line.
“Evelyn?””
My father.
I nearly dropped the phone.
“Dad!””
“Don't come,” he whispered.
“Whatever they tell you, don't come here.””
A sharp impact sounded.
My father groaned.
Then another voice took over.
“That's enough family sentiment.””
Richard.
“Midnight, Evelyn. Bring the key, or the next photograph will be of your father's body.””
The line went dead.
I stood in the middle of the motel room, holding the phone in one hand and the brass key in the other.
Margaret looked at me.
“What are you going to do?””
I slipped the key into my pocket.
“I'm going to the vineyard.””
She stood immediately.
“Then I'm coming with you.””
“No.””
“Evelyn—”
“You're the only person Richard knows will try to protect me. If he sees you, he'll use you to control me.””
She looked hurt.
But she nodded.
Before leaving, I took the photograph of Isabella and slipped it inside my jacket.
I also took the recorder, the trust agreement, and the silver bracelet.
Then I called the only person I could think of who might help us without warning Richard.
Marta.
The phone rang six times.
Finally, she answered.
“Evelyn?””
“Are you safe?””
“For now.””
“I need you to do something for me.””
“Anything.””
“Find Dr. Samuel Hargrove. Tell him both daughters are alive.””
Silence.
Then Marta whispered, “You found the trust.””
“Yes.””
“Then there's something you need to know before you go to the cellar.””
“What?””
Marta's voice dropped.
“Richard isn't the one who sent you that photograph of your father.””
My stomach tightened.
“Who did?””
She hesitated.
“Your sister.””
I looked at the photograph in my hand.
“Isabella?””
“Yes.””
“Why would she want me to come?””
Marta swallowed.
“Because she's been waiting twelve years to meet you.””
May you like
Then she said the words that made the entire night suddenly feel like a nightmare.
“And she believes your father deserves to die.””
