Chapter 7 - The Fragmented Truth
Clare didn't touch the glass vial.
Her training as a server didn't include forensics, but she had read enough to know that touching a piece of evidence in a two-year-old murder case could destroy the only chance of getting justice.
She stared at the small metal lockbox. A four-digit combination lock was set into the front latch.
Four digits.
Clare crawled backward out of the narrow attic space, emerging back into the brightly lit playroom. She wiped the dust from her jeans and sat down on the rug beside Grace.
Grace looked at her with wide, pale blue eyes. "Did you find it?"
"I found the clock, Grace," Clare said gently. "And I found the box beneath the floor."
Grace looked down at her hands. "The box has numbers."
"It does," Clare said. "Do you know the numbers, Grace?"
Grace began picking up her paper cranes, stacking them one by one into a small wooden basket beside her.
"Mommy liked birds," Grace murmured. "She told me that birds fly in numbers. First one, then three, then four, then two."
1 - 3 - 4 - 2.
Clare committed the numbers to memory instantly.
"Grace," Clare said softly, reaching out to gently touch the girl’s shoulder. "Did you see who put that box there?"
Grace’s hands froze over the wooden basket.
Her breath hitched in her chest, and her body began to tremble violently. A look of sheer, unadulterated terror filled her young face—a terror so deep and visceral that it sent a chill straight through Clare's heart.
"The rain was heavy," Grace whispered, her voice cracking into a silent sob. "Mommy was sleeping on the sofa in the sunroom. The sharp lady gave her the cup of tea."
"Evelyn," Clare breathed.
"Evelyn told me Mommy was tired," Grace sobbed, tears finally pouring down her cheeks in a heavy torrent. "She told me if I ever told Daddy about the tea, she would give the tea to Daddy, too. And then I would be all alone."
Clare pulled Grace into her arms.
She held the little girl tight against her chest, rocking her back and forth as two years of pent-up grief, horror, and unimaginable fear finally broke through the child's silent wall. Grace wept hysterically into Clare's gray sweater, her tiny fingers clutching the fabric with all the strength in her small body.
"It's okay," Clare whispered, tears stinging her own eyes as she held the child. "It's okay, Grace. I've got you. You're not alone anymore. Nobody is going to hurt your daddy."
From the doorway of the playroom, a shadow fell across the rug.
Clare looked up.
Standing in the open doorway was Evelyn Vance.
She wasn't holding a tea cup. In her right hand, she held a sleek, silver master keycard to the estate’s security system. Her face was completely devoid of emotion, her cold gray eyes locked onto Clare and the crying child.
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"I see you’ve been making yourself comfortable, Miss Donovan," Evelyn said, her voice dropping into a dangerous, icy register. "Mr. Cole has just been called into an emergency meeting in his ground-floor office. Which means you and I have a few minutes to talk."
Evelyn stepped into the room and closed the heavy double doors behind her, clicking the lock into place.
