Chapter 4: Someone Was Listening
The shadow outside my bedroom didn't move.
I stood beside the wooden chest, clutching Richard Lawson's letter so tightly that the paper crumpled beneath my fingers.
"Mom," I whispered into the phone, "someone's outside my room.""
My mother's voice sharpened instantly.
"Lock the door, Emily. Right now.""
I reached for the handle, but before I could turn it, a familiar voice called from the hallway.
"Emily? Honey, are you awake?""
It was Mom.
I stared at my phone.
The call was still connected.
My mother was speaking into my ear while someone using her voice stood outside my bedroom.
"Emily," the voice outside repeated, "open the door.""
Every hair on my arms stood up.
"Mom," I whispered, "who's in our house?""
"I don't know," she answered.
"I'm still at work. I'm coming home now. Don't open that door for anyone.""
The shadow shifted.
Then a man's voice came from the hallway.
"Miss Bennett, we only want to talk.""
I recognized it immediately.
Richard Lawson.
My stomach dropped.
How had he found my house?
He had left the school less than an hour ago. There was no way he could have known I would discover the letter so quickly unless someone had followed me.
"Emily," Richard called, his tone suddenly pleasant, "I understand you've found some old family documents. I'd appreciate the opportunity to explain them before you misunderstand what you're reading.""
I looked at the letter in my hand.
If you insist on reclaiming the designs, I will make sure no one in this industry ever works with you again.
There was nothing to misunderstand.
"Go away," I called.
Silence.
Then Richard sighed.
"Your grandmother was a talented woman. Unfortunately, she became confused about the terms of our agreement. I'd hate to see you repeat her mistakes.""
I moved the phone closer to my mouth.
"Mom, he's here. Richard Lawson is outside my bedroom.""
"I'm calling the police," she said.
"Stay away from him.""
Richard tried the handle.
The locked door rattled.
"Emily, don't make this unnecessarily difficult.""
I backed away from the door and grabbed my laptop from the desk. My hands shook as I opened the camera application and started recording.
"You're trespassing," I called.
"I'm recording you.""
That stopped him.
For several seconds, I heard nothing but the old refrigerator humming in the kitchen.
Then came the sound of footsteps moving away.
I waited until the front door slammed.
Only then did I realize I had been holding my breath.
"Emily?"" Mom said.
"Are you still there?""
"Yes.""
"Did he take anything?""
I turned toward the chest.
The sketchbooks remained where I had left them. The letter was still in my hand.
"I don't think so.""
"Don't touch anything else. I'm on my way.""
Twenty-five minutes later, Mom burst through the front door wearing her hospital jacket, her hair pulled into a hurried ponytail.
She rushed into my bedroom and wrapped her arms around me.
"Are you hurt?""
"No.""
"Did he touch you?""
"He tried the door.""
She pulled away and looked at the lock.
Then her eyes fell on the open chest.
For a long moment, she said nothing.
I had seen my mother exhausted, angry, heartbroken, and frightened. But I had never seen her look at an object as if it had the power to destroy her.
"Mom," I said quietly, "what happened to Grandma?""
She sat on the edge of my bed.
"Your grandmother spent years designing clothes for other people. She was brilliant, Emily. But she trusted the wrong man.""
"Richard?""
Mom nodded.
"She worked with him when his company was still small. He promised her a partnership. He said they would build a collection together, and that her name would appear on every design she created.""
"Then he stole them?""
"He took the designs and claimed the company owned them. When she protested, his lawyers sent her letters threatening to sue her for breach of contract.""
I glanced at the paper in my hand.
"She had proof.""
"She believed she did.""
"Why didn't you tell me?""
My mother's eyes filled with tears.
"Because I was twenty-two when she died, and I was busy trying to keep our lives from falling apart. I thought the past was something we could leave behind.""
She looked at the chest.
"I was wrong.""
I sat beside her.
"What's the original agreement?""
Mom shook her head.
"I don't know. Your grandmother said the signed copy was the only document that could prove what Richard promised her. She hid it somewhere safe, but she never told me where.""
"She wrote that it was somewhere Richard would never think to look.""
Mom studied the handwriting on the letter.
"Your grandmother used to hide things in strange places. She once taped emergency money beneath the kitchen table because she thought burglars would search the drawers.""
Despite everything, I almost smiled.
"That sounds like her.""
Mom took the letter and examined the signature.
"This isn't the whole story, Emily.""
"What do you mean?""
"Your grandmother didn't just lose her collection. After the dispute, she was offered a settlement. A substantial one.""
"Then why didn't she take it?""
"Because the settlement required her to sign a statement saying she had never created the disputed designs independently. It would have meant admitting that her work belonged to Richard's company.""
I looked at the blue gown in the sketchbook.
"She refused.""
"Yes.""
"And he destroyed her career.""
Mom nodded.
The room felt smaller with every word.
I thought about Brielle standing in the hallway, smiling while she ripped my dress apart. I thought about Richard telling me that talent wasn't ownership.
Perhaps they had learned the same lesson from the same person.
"Mom, I want to find the agreement.""
She looked at me for a long time.
"Then we do it carefully. We don't confront Richard alone, and we don't give him any of these documents.""
I nodded.
She placed the letter back in the chest.
Then she reached beneath the sketchbooks and pulled out a photograph I hadn't noticed before.
It showed Grandma standing in front of an old brick building, holding a garment bag.
On the back, she had written an address.
Mom went pale.
"What's wrong?"" I asked.
"That's the address of your grandmother's old studio.""
"I thought she worked from home.""
"She did, after she left Lawson Atelier. Before that, she rented a room in a building downtown. She kept her original patterns there.""
"Does the studio still exist?""
Mom turned the photograph over again.
"I don't know.""
I grabbed my phone and searched the address.
A property listing appeared, showing a two-story brick building with faded windows and a FOR LEASE sign.
The building had been converted into small commercial units.
One of the photographs showed a narrow staircase leading to an upstairs studio.
I enlarged the image.
A familiar object sat in the corner.
An old sewing machine with a curved metal base.
Grandma's machine.
I knew its shape as well as my own hands.
"Mom," I whispered, "look.""
She stared at the screen.
Then she took the phone from me.
"That machine shouldn't be there.""
"Why?""
"Because your grandmother sold it.""
I looked at her.
"To whom?""
Mom swallowed.
"Richard Lawson.""
My blood turned cold.
At that exact moment, a notification appeared on my laptop.
An email from an unknown sender.
No subject line.
Only one sentence in the body.
If you want to know what happened to Eleanor Bennett, come to the old studio tomorrow. Come alone.
Beneath the message was a photograph.
May you like
It showed Grandma's sewing machine sitting in a dark room.
And tied around its metal arm was a champagne-gold ribbon.
