Chapter 4: Someone Had Been Waiting for Me
“Camille, do not go to Boston alone.””
David Collins’s warning followed me into the hotel elevator, through the lobby, and all the way to the black sedan waiting outside.
I had barely slept. My suitcase was still open in the hotel suite, and the brass key my grandfather had left me felt unnaturally heavy inside my handbag.
Someone had broken into his former office.
Someone knew about the key.
And someone had been desperate enough to warn me away from the archive before I could discover what happened to Marcus’s father.
“David, I need you to answer one question,” I said as the driver pulled away from the curb.
“Was the death investigation file the only reason my grandfather maintained that archive?””
“No.””
His answer came too quickly.
“What else was there?””
“Financial records. Correspondence with his attorneys. Original trust documents. Richard was meticulous about preserving evidence.””
“Evidence of what?””
David sighed.
“I don't want to speculate before we see what's missing.””
“That isn't what I asked.””
“I know, Camille. But if I tell you something I cannot substantiate, it could compromise everything we are trying to do.””
I watched the streets pass outside the window.
“Then tell me what you can substantiate.””
He paused.
“Three weeks before Marcus's father died, Richard instructed me to preserve a series of bank transfers and letters involving a company called Northbridge Capital.””
I wrote the name in my phone.
“Was Patricia involved?””
“Her signature appears on several related documents.””
My fingers tightened around the phone.
“Did Marcus know?””
“Not according to anything I've seen.””
The call ended with David promising to meet me at the archive.
I leaned back and stared at my reflection in the tinted glass.
For years, I had thought Patricia's cruelty came from the same place as her obsession with appearances. She needed everyone to admire her, and she despised anyone who threatened the illusion.
But this was different.
People who feared embarrassment hired publicists.
People who feared exposure broke into locked offices.
When we reached Boston, I asked the driver to take me directly to my grandfather's former office on Beacon Street.
The building stood between an old law practice and a private medical clinic. Its red-brick exterior had faded with age, and the brass lettering beside the entrance was tarnished.
Richard Carter had bought the property decades earlier, using it as a private office after retiring from the company.
David was waiting on the sidewalk.
He looked older than he had the night before.
“I'm glad you came with the driver,” he said.
“Did the police arrive?””
“Yes. They took photographs, but we haven't received their preliminary report.””
“Did anyone see the intruder?””
“A security guard saw a man leaving through the rear entrance. He wore a dark coat and a baseball cap. The guard couldn't identify him.””
I glanced at the building.
“Did he take the keyhole apart?””
“No. The archive door was opened with a proper key.””
I turned toward David.
“Meaning someone had a copy.””
“Possibly.””
“Or someone inside gave them access.””
His expression tightened.
“Let's go inside.””
The office smelled of dust, old paper, and the faint bitterness of stale coffee. A desk lamp lay on its side near the window. Filing cabinets stood open, their drawers pulled out and abandoned.
Someone had not merely searched the room.
They had searched it in a hurry.
I walked toward the desk.
A framed photograph lay face down on the floor. When I lifted it, I found my grandfather standing beside a younger man with dark hair and a broad smile.
Marcus's father.
I had seen photographs of him before, but never this one. Richard had an arm around his son's shoulders. Both men looked relaxed, almost boyish.
On the back, in Richard's handwriting, were six words.
The truth must survive us both.
My throat tightened.
“David, look at this.””
He examined the photograph and then turned away.
“Richard wrote that shortly before his death.””
“You knew?””
“I knew he was concerned about the past. I didn't know what this particular note referred to.””
I set the photograph on the desk.
“Show me the archive.””
David led me down a narrow staircase behind the office library. At the bottom stood a steel door with a keypad and a traditional keyhole.
The lock had not been forced.
Someone had opened it properly.
David entered a code, then used his key.
The door swung inward.
Inside, shelves lined three walls. Most held old account books, sealed envelopes, and labeled document boxes. A heavy metal cabinet stood in the corner.
Its bottom drawer was open.
I approached slowly.
“What's missing?””
David checked the labels.
“The estate ledgers are here. So are the original trust agreements.””
He moved to the next shelf.
“Some correspondence is missing.””
“Which correspondence?””
He ran a finger over a row of empty spaces.
“Letters from Richard to his attorney concerning Northbridge Capital.””
My stomach tightened.
“And the death investigation file?””
David opened the metal cabinet.
The folder was gone.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then I noticed a small envelope lying beneath the cabinet.
It had not been there by accident. It was positioned where someone would have to look down to see it.
My name was written across the front.
“David.””
He turned.
I picked up the envelope and opened it.
Inside was a single sheet of paper.
Camille,
If you have reached this room, then someone has already tried to stop you.
Do not trust the explanation given for Thomas's death.
The original report was altered after it was signed.
Find the woman who witnessed the second meeting.
Her name is Evelyn Shaw.
Ask her what happened to the blue folder.
And do not tell Marcus until you know who was in the car that night.
I read the final sentence twice.
Thomas Carter.
Marcus's father.
My fingers began to tremble.
“David, who was Evelyn Shaw?””
He took the paper from me and studied it.
“I remember the name. She was an administrative assistant at Carter Holdings.””
“Was she interviewed after Thomas died?””
“I believe she gave a statement to the police.””
“Then why would my grandfather need me to find her?””
David looked toward the empty cabinet.
“Because her statement may have been excluded from the final report.””
I folded the letter carefully.
“We need to find her.””
“I'll make some calls.””
“No. If someone is watching your office, they'll know immediately.””
He looked at me with concern.
“Camille, you cannot investigate a potential crime by yourself.””
“I'm not planning to.””
I took out my phone and searched for Evelyn Shaw.
The first result was an old professional profile. The second was an obituary for a man with the same surname. The third was a newspaper article about a community center in Cambridge.
There, in a photograph from a charity fundraiser, stood a silver-haired woman wearing a blue scarf.
The caption identified her as Evelyn Shaw, volunteer coordinator.
I enlarged the photograph.
The woman was older now, but her face was unmistakable.
“She's alive,” I whispered.
David leaned over my shoulder.
“Camille, wait. We need to verify the address.””
I clicked through to the community center's website.
A phone number appeared beneath the photograph.
I called.
A receptionist answered.
“Cambridge Community Outreach. How may I help you?””
“I'm trying to reach Evelyn Shaw.””
“May I ask who's calling?””
“My name is Camille Reed. I believe she knew my grandfather, Richard Carter.””
There was a pause.
“I'm sorry. Ms. Shaw doesn't accept unsolicited calls.””
“Please tell her I have a letter concerning Thomas Carter's death.””
The receptionist stopped typing.
Then she said, very quietly, “One moment.””
I waited.
A click sounded.
A woman's voice came through the line.
“Who gave you that name?””
“Richard Carter.””
Silence.
Then the woman whispered, “Is Patricia with you?””
“No.””
“Are you alone?””
I glanced at David.
“Yes,” I lied.
The woman took a shaky breath.
“Listen carefully. If Richard's granddaughter has found the archive, then they have probably found you, too.””
My blood ran cold.
“Who has?””
“I can't talk over the phone.””
“Then tell me where to meet you.””
She hesitated.
“Tomorrow. Ten o'clock. The old chapel on Garden Street.””
“Evelyn, wait. What happened to Thomas?””
Her voice broke.
“He wasn't supposed to die that night.””
The line went dead.
I stared at the phone.
David slowly closed the archive cabinet.
“Now do you understand why I asked you not to come alone?””
I barely heard him.
My grandfather's letter lay open in my hand.
Do not tell Marcus until you know who was in the car that night.
For the first time, I wondered whether my husband had been living with a lie so enormous that exposing it might destroy the last good memory he had of his father.
Then my phone vibrated.
A message from Marcus appeared.
*Mother says you broke into the family archive and stole confidential documents. The police are asking questions. Camille, what have you done?*
I read it once.
Then I read it again.
Patricia had already made her move.
She was not simply trying to protect the estate.
She was trying to make sure that if the truth ever emerged, I would be the one standing accused.
And somewhere in Boston, a woman named Evelyn Shaw was waiting to tell me what really happened the night Marcus lost his father.
But before I could reply to Marcus, another message arrived from an unknown number.
It contained a photograph of me standing outside the archive building.
Taken less than ten minutes earlier.
May you like
Beneath it were seven words.
*You should have stayed out of this.*
