Chapter 3 - THE ROOM THEY LEFT BEHIND
After the first shock passed, I called Jackson. Straight to voicemail. I sent a message saying something terrible had happened and I needed him immediately. Natalie called back instead. Her tone was airy, almost amused. “Don’t bother him today, Eleanor. He’s getting ready. And honestly? Maybe staying home would be less embarrassing for everyone.” I opened my closet and found my pale-blue mother-of-the-groom dress cut into ribbons. My jewelry box was gone. The alarm logs showed my bedroom wing had been disarmed for twenty-three minutes between 2:11 and 2:34 a.m. When my housekeeper, Maria, arrived in tears, she told me she had seen Natalie leaving the upstairs hall just before dawn carrying a garment bag and whispering into her phone.
For several minutes I sat on the edge of the bed, feeling every one of my sixty-eight years. Then something harder than humiliation settled in. I had survived building a company in rooms full of men who assumed grief and age would make me pliable. I had nursed my husband through cancer. I had not spent my life creating a legacy so a vindictive little opportunist could shave my head and train my own son to ignore my pain. I called my sister Judith first. Then I called my attorney, Martin Keene. Two hours later Judith arrived with a navy beaded gown, diamond studs, and a silver wig that made us both laugh in spite of ourselves. Martin told me not to discuss the transfer with anyone until he reached the hotel. “And Eleanor,” he said carefully, “if Natalie entered your room and tampered with your property, do nothing publicly until we know what else she touched.”
