Chapter 7: The Woman Holding the Gun
The woman standing on the front steps wore a cream-colored coat and black leather gloves.
The gun in her right hand pointed directly at my chest.
“Step away from the gate,” she ordered.
Evelyn moved in front of me.
“We're unarmed. We came to speak with Arthur Whitmore.””
The woman laughed without humor.
“Arthur doesn't speak to visitors.””
“Then why did he open the gate?”” I asked.
Her eyes shifted toward me.
For one strange second, she looked almost startled.
Then she raised the gun.
“Because he's confused. He doesn't understand who you are.””
Behind the upstairs window, Arthur Whitmore struck the glass with his palm.
His mouth moved.
I couldn't hear him, but I understood the desperation in his face.
He was trying to warn us.
“Who are you?”” Evelyn demanded.
The woman descended one step.
“Someone who's been keeping this family alive while the rest of you dig up graves.””
“That's an interesting way to describe hiding an elderly man from his own family,” Evelyn replied.
The woman's finger tightened around the trigger.
“Get back in your car.””
I felt my daughter move beneath my ribs.
A firm, unmistakable kick.
I placed one hand over my stomach and forced myself to remain standing.
“No,” I said.
Evelyn glanced back at me.
“Nia—”
“I've spent my entire life being told to walk away whenever someone wanted to hide something from me. I'm not doing it again.””
The woman stared at me.
Then her expression changed.
“You have Margaret's eyes.””
The words came out almost involuntarily.
I froze.
“You knew my mother?””
The woman lowered the gun by an inch.
“I knew enough to understand that she should have stayed out of this family.””
“Did you help Diane take me from her?””
She looked toward the upstairs window.
Arthur was no longer there.
When she faced me again, her expression had hardened.
“You don't know what Margaret did.””
“Then tell me.””
“Your mother destroyed everything she touched.””
Evelyn took a step forward.
“That's enough, Celeste.””
The woman turned sharply.
“Don't call me that.””
So her name was Celeste.
I watched her carefully.
She was probably in her late fifties, with pale skin and short blond hair tucked behind her ears. Her coat was expensive, but one sleeve had a dark stain near the cuff.
Her hands were shaking.
Not from fear of us.
From something else.
“Celeste,” I said, keeping my voice calm, “if you wanted to hurt me, you could have done it already. Instead, you're standing here talking about my mother.””
She stared at me for several seconds.
Then she lowered the gun completely.
“Come inside.””
Evelyn didn't move.
“Put the weapon away first.””
Celeste gave a bitter smile.
“You think you're in a position to negotiate?””
“No,” Evelyn replied.
“I think a woman pointing a gun at a pregnant stranger should put it down before the police arrive.””
Celeste's smile vanished.
“Police?””
“Two officers are following us. They know where we are.””
That was a bluff. I could tell from Evelyn's face.
Celeste couldn't.
She turned toward the house, hesitated, then slipped the gun into the pocket of her coat.
“Five minutes,” she said.
“That's all you're getting.””
The gates closed behind us.
Inside, the estate smelled of lemon polish and old wood. Portraits lined the hallway, each one showing a different generation of Whitmores posed beneath the same enormous chandelier.
At the top of the staircase hung a portrait of Richard Whitmore.
I stopped.
The man in the painting had Daniel's eyes.
He also had mine.
The resemblance was so striking that I stepped closer without realizing it.
Celeste noticed.
“Now you understand why Diane was afraid of you.””
I turned toward her.
“Because I look like my father?””
“Because you look like him, and because your existence threatened the family's control over the trust.””
Evelyn folded her arms.
“Where is Arthur?””
Celeste gestured toward a corridor.
“Upstairs. But you will not upset him.””
I followed her.
At the end of the hallway, a heavy oak door stood slightly open. Through the gap, I could hear the faint sound of a television.
Celeste knocked twice.
“Arthur? You have visitors.””
A thin voice answered.
“Let them in.””
The room beyond was bright and warm, with a bed near the window, a small desk, and shelves filled with books.
Arthur Whitmore sat in a wheelchair beside the window.
He looked much older than his portrait, his face deeply lined and his shoulders narrow beneath a wool cardigan. Yet his eyes were sharp.
When he saw me, he gripped the arms of his chair.
“Margaret's girl.””
I couldn't speak.
Arthur's gaze dropped to my stomach.
“And another child.””
He closed his eyes briefly.
“God help us all.””
I approached him slowly.
“Are you my grandfather?””
“Yes.””
“Why did everyone tell us you were dead?””
His expression darkened.
“Because dead men cannot testify.””
Evelyn moved closer.
“Testify against whom?””
Arthur looked toward Celeste.
She stood in the doorway with her arms folded.
“Against your grandmother,” he said.
My grandmother.
The word sounded wrong.
I had spent years believing Diane was merely a controlling woman who had never accepted me as part of her family.
Now I was learning that she might have been responsible for my mother's suffering, my father's disappearance, and a conspiracy that had outlived the people who supposedly started it.
“Tell me everything,” I said.
Arthur shook his head.
“Not here.””
He reached beneath a blanket covering his legs and pulled out a small brass key.
He placed it in my palm.
“Your father left something for you. Something Diane has searched for ever since.””
“What is it?””
“A ledger. Names, payments, dates. Proof of what happened the night you were born.””
Evelyn leaned forward.
“Where is it?””
Arthur pointed toward the wall behind his bed.
“There's a safe hidden behind the paneling. The combination is your birth date.””
I stared at him.
“My birth date was changed.””
“No,” Arthur whispered.
“The date on your certificate was changed. Your real birthday is October twelfth.””
My birthday was October twelfth.
I had celebrated it every year of my life.
I looked at Evelyn.
She nodded slowly.
“Margaret's hospital records list October twelfth.””
My fingers closed around the key.
Then Arthur grabbed my wrist.
“Listen to me. The ledger proves Diane arranged your disappearance. But it also proves Richard wasn't the man who planned it.””
“Who did?””
Arthur's eyes filled with tears.
“Someone who wanted your father to believe you were dead. Someone who needed Richard gone before he could expose the truth.””
“Who?””
Arthur looked directly at me.
“Your father was betrayed by his own brother.””
A floorboard creaked behind us.
Celeste stood perfectly still in the doorway.
Then she whispered, “Arthur, you promised you wouldn't tell her.””
He looked at her with exhausted contempt.
“I promised to protect her.””
Celeste reached into her coat.
This time, she didn't draw the gun.
She pulled out a photograph.
She placed it on the bedside table.
It showed Richard Whitmore standing beside a younger man whose face was almost identical to his own.
On the back, someone had written a name.
*Thomas Whitmore.*
Celeste stared at me.
“Your father's brother is still alive, Nia.””
May you like
Then she looked toward the window.
“And he's on his way here.””
