Chapter 3 - THE KEY BEHIND THE FLOWER SHOP
We returned to the house with Detective Pierce and two officers.
I kept Penelope at the hospital.
I refused to let her witness another search.
The brass key remained sealed in an evidence bag.
Number 17.
The red ribbon still tied around it.
Pierce studied the storefront from the sidewalk.
“This was a florist before?”
“My aunt owned it.”
“And your sister-in-law uses it now?”
“Yes.”
“Without a lease?”
“Yes.”
He looked at me.
“You may want to rethink that arrangement.”
“I already have.”
The storefront door was locked.
Gretchen had the only key.
At least, that's what she had always told me.
Pierce had a locksmith open it.
The salon looked ordinary.
Manicure tables.
Chairs.
Polish bottles.
A reception desk.
Photographs of smiling customers.
Nothing immediately suspicious.
Then I noticed the back hallway.
There was a door I had never seen open.
“What is that?”
Pierce followed my gaze.
“Storage?”
“Probably.”
The door was locked.
The brass key fit.
The number 17 had nothing to do with the lock.
But when we opened the door, we found a narrow storage room.
Boxes lined the walls.
Most were labeled with salon supplies.
One box was marked:
OLD INVENTORY — DO NOT MOVE.
Pierce opened it.
Inside were financial records.
Bank statements.
Receipts.
Copies of contracts.
And several envelopes.
I recognized my signature.
Not on the documents.
On the checks.
I had never written them.
Pierce picked up one.
“Did you authorize this?”
“No.”
The check was for $7,500.
Payee: Northstar Property Services.
Purpose: emergency repairs.
I looked at the date.
Three months earlier.
I had been in Spokane.
Another check.
$4,800.
Another.
$9,200.
All drawn against the household account.
All bearing my name.
“This is forgery.”
Pierce nodded.
“Looks like it.”
Then we found something worse.
A property agreement.
It stated that the detached storefront was subject to a debt owed to a private lender.
My name appeared at the bottom.
Again, forged.
The document claimed I had pledged the property as collateral.
I stared at it.
“That isn't real.”
Pierce studied the paper.
“It might be enough to convince someone who doesn't check.”
“Who?”
“Anyone trying to force a sale.”
The pieces connected.
The money had been drained.
The house had been made to look financially unstable.
The storefront had been burdened with fake debt.
Then Zachary had planned to pressure me into selling.
But why leave Penelope alone?
Why risk that?
Pierce found the answer in another file.
A custody agreement.
My signature again.
Forged.
It claimed that I had voluntarily agreed to temporary sole custody for Zachary because my military assignments made me unavailable.
I felt sick.
“They were building a case against me.”
Pierce nodded.
“Possibly.”
“For what?”
“Neglect.”
I stared at him.
Then the truth hit.
The empty refrigerator.
My daughter alone.
The house without food.
The cameras disconnected.
Someone could make it look as though I had abandoned Penelope.
I had been away on assignment.
They could claim I knew she was alone.
Then Zachary could seek custody.
And perhaps control the property.
I picked up the custody document.
“This was planned.”
“Yes.”
But Pierce wasn't finished.
At the bottom of the box was a photograph.
A young girl stood beside a woman.
The woman was Beatrice.
The girl was not Gretchen.
Not Penelope.
Someone else.
On the back was written:
ELENA — AGE FIVE.
I stared at the name.
“Who is Elena?”
Pierce looked at me.
“I don't know.”
I turned the photograph over again.
The girl wore a small silver bracelet.
On it was a flower-shaped charm.
I had seen it before.
In the family photo album.
But I couldn't remember where.
Then I remembered.
Josephine's old photographs.
My aunt had once told me that her sister had adopted a child before I was born.
A little girl named Elena.
I had never met her.
The adoption had supposedly failed.
She had been returned to the system.
Or so I had been told.
Pierce asked,
“Does this mean anything to you?”
“No.”
Then I saw the date.
Twenty-four years ago.
And suddenly I understood why Zachary had said something about “the other little girl.”
There wasn't another child in our house.
There was another child in the family history.
But why would a twenty-four-year-old photograph matter now?
I called Josephine's attorney.
The old man was retired, but he remembered her estate.
“Charlotte,” he said carefully, “your aunt left instructions regarding Elena.”
“What instructions?”
“She wanted the girl located.”
“Why?”
“She believed Elena had been wrongfully removed from the family.”
My heart began pounding.
“Did Josephine know where she was?”
“No.”
“Did she leave anything?”
“A trust.”
I froze.
“What kind?”
“A substantial one.”
“How substantial?”
He named an amount.
I had to sit down.
Josephine's property wasn't simply valuable.
There was a trust attached to it.
And the beneficiary was not me.
It was Elena.
“If Elena could not be found,” the attorney continued, “the trust would eventually revert to the property holder.”
“Me.”
“Yes.”
I stared at the fake property documents.
Suddenly the motive looked different.
Zachary hadn't only wanted my house.
Someone wanted control of the trust.
But who?
I called Pierce.
“We need to find Elena.”
“We will.”
Before he could continue, his phone rang.
He listened.
Then his expression changed.
“We found something in the records.”
“What?”
“Your husband wasn't the person who created the fake custody agreement.”
“Who was?”
Pierce looked at me.
“Beatrice.”
My stomach tightened.
“That doesn't make sense.”
“She signed as the preparer.”
“She's not an attorney.”
“No.”
He handed me the document.
There was a second signature.
A witness.
Gretchen.
I stared at both names.
Then my phone rang.
Zachary.
I answered.
He didn't ask about Penelope.
He said,
“Charlotte, you need to listen carefully.”
I said nothing.
“I didn't know how far my mother would take this.”
My eyes narrowed.
“What did she do?”
“She told me Penelope was going to be safe.”
“Where are you?”
“Still in Miami.”
“Why did you leave her?”
He was silent.
Then he whispered,
“Because I was afraid of what Mom would do if I stayed.”
My grip tightened.
“Why?”
“Because she isn't trying to take your house.”
“What does she want?”
His voice broke.
“She wants to find Elena.”
I stared at the photograph.
“Who is Elena?”
Zachary took a breath.
Then said,
“She isn't Josephine's niece.”
“She is your daughter.”
I couldn't speak.
“That can't be true.”
“I know.”
“Then explain.”
“I can't over the phone.”
“Zachary.”
“I'll come home.”
“No.”
He paused.
“Charlotte—”
“You come anywhere near Penelope before the police speak to you, and I will make sure you regret it.”
I ended the call.
But the photograph of the little girl remained in my hand.
Elena.
Five years old.
Exactly the age Penelope had been.
May you like
And beneath the photograph, in faded handwriting, were six words.
SHE WAS NEVER SUPPOSED TO BE ADOPTED.
