Chapter 7 - VANESSA'S SECOND SECRET
Vanessa did not deny it.
That made me angrier.
“You knew.”
“Yes.”
“Who was he?”
“I don't know.”
“Did you ask?”
“Yes.”
“What did Lily tell you?”
“The same thing.”
“And you did nothing?”
Vanessa stood beside our bedroom window.
“This wing has contractors in and out.”
“Not yesterday.”
“I thought one had come back.”
“You didn't check?”
She looked embarrassed.
“No.”
“Why?”
Because Michael.
She had been coordinating with him.
Title counsel.
Notary.
Trust paperwork.
Her attention was on the secret she knew.
She treated the unknown man as noise.
Then Lily mentioned he knew Claire.
That should have changed it.
It did.
Vanessa checked the security app.
No front-door entry.
No gate vehicle.
But our old west service door had been left unarmed by the renovation crew.
She called the contractor.
He said nobody returned.
“What did you do then?”
Vanessa hesitated.
“I went upstairs.”
“Did you find anyone?”
“No.”
“Did you call me?”
“No.”
“Security?”
“No.”
“Why?”
Her answer was ugly and human.
“Because I was afraid if security searched the guest wing, they'd find Michael today.”
“You cared more about hiding him than finding out who had been in our house.”
“Yes.”
There.
No defense.
I walked out.
Vanessa followed.
“Daniel.”
“Not now.”
“I need you to understand—”
“No.”
I turned.
“You grabbed Lily's purse this morning because you were already terrified she'd found something.”
Vanessa's eyes filled.
“Yes.”
“You called an eight-year-old a thief.”
“Yes.”
“You hit me.”
“Yes.”
“Do not turn the third yes into an apology speech.”
She stopped.
Good.
I asked her to stay elsewhere for a few nights.
She said:
“This is my home too.”
She was right.
Marriage had not made me sheriff.
So we did something less satisfying and more realistic.
She moved into the upstairs east suite by agreement.
I stayed in our bedroom.
No pretending that solved anything.
Then Michael joined me in my mother's old sitting room.
He looked at the cufflink.
“Caleb had these.”
“How sure?”
“Pretty sure.”
“Why?”
“Thomas wore plain gold. Caleb had black enamel.”
That narrowed it.
Caleb Reed died last year.
Could he have been in our house recently?
No.
So somebody else had the cufflink.
An heir?
A buyer?
A person using old belongings?
We checked probate.
Caleb left his estate to one son.
Andrew Reed.
Age forty-two.
New Jersey.
Occupation:
Private wealth manager.
The name meant nothing to me.
It meant something to Vanessa.
Her face changed when I said it.
“What?”
I asked.
She closed her eyes.
“I met him.”
“When?”
“Three weeks ago.”
There.
The same week the refinance title problem appeared.
Andrew Reed had contacted Vanessa after she began searching for Michael.
He said he knew where Michael was.
He gave her the Seattle business address.
“How?”
Vanessa said:
“His father kept old family correspondence.”
“Why didn't you mention Andrew?”
“Because after he gave me the address, he said he wanted nothing else to do with it.”
“Then why was he in my mother's room yesterday?”
“I don't know.”
Michael looked at Vanessa.
“Did he know Claire?”
Vanessa shook her head.
May you like
“I never asked.”
That was becoming a family specialty.
