Chapter 3 - THE WOMAN LYDIA TRUSTED
Garrison stared at the message on the piano.
NORAH SHOULD HAVE FORGOTTEN.
Meline stopped beside him.
The words seemed impossible.
Cruel.
Specific.
Someone inside the house knew her mother.
Someone believed Alzheimer’s had protected a secret.
Bennett arrived behind them.
“Oh my God.”
Garrison turned.
“Seal the estate.”
“Already happening.”
“Everyone stays.”
Bennett hesitated.
“Including staff?”
“Everyone.”
Meline’s shoulders tightened.
Garrison noticed.
“You’re not a prisoner.”
“Your gates are closing.”
“For the person who entered this room.”
“That person may be an employee.”
“Yes.”
“And I’m an employee.”
Garrison looked at Bennett.
“Give Meline access through the north gate.”
Bennett nodded.
“You can leave whenever you want,” Garrison said. “But I’d prefer you didn’t.”
“Why?”
“Because somebody just threatened your mother.”
That was true.
Meline looked at the empty piano stand.
“I’m staying.”
Garrison’s expression softened by perhaps one degree.
Security footage from the outage was nearly useless.
Cameras died for three minutes.
The backup network returned in fragments.
One figure appeared in the east corridor.
Dark clothing.
Face hidden.
No usable detail.
Emmett arrived twenty minutes later wearing an expensive robe and outrage.
“What happened?”
Garrison watched him.
“You tell me.”
Emmett frowned.
“Excuse me?”
“My medication.”
“What about it?”
“You collected my refill.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“The pharmacy called. Bennett was unavailable.”
Bennett looked offended.
“I was in the dining room.”
Emmett ignored him.
“I was nearby.”
“What did you do with it?”
“Put it in the medical cabinet.”
Bennett shook his head.
“It’s not there.”
Emmett’s face tightened.
“Well, someone moved it.”
Garrison stepped closer.
“Who?”
“How would I know?”
Meline watched carefully.
Emmett seemed angry.
But not frightened enough.
Sloan entered.
“The police are on their way.”
Garrison looked at him.
“I didn’t call them.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
“Someone entered the property.”
Garrison’s gaze sharpened.
“You’re very interested in procedure tonight.”
“I’m always interested in procedure.”
“That’s why I pay you.”
Meline wondered whether that sentence contained a warning.
Police arrived.
Statements were taken.
The piano was dusted.
No useful prints.
The message had been written with a gloved hand.
The thief had taken only the sheet music.
Nothing else.
That mattered.
At four in the morning, Garrison told Meline to sleep.
She laughed tiredly.
“I work nights.”
“You’re not working now.”
“I need the hours.”
He looked at her.
“How much do you make?”
“That’s not relevant.”
“It’s extremely relevant if you’re staying here because you’re afraid to lose wages.”
“I’m staying because someone mentioned my mother.”
“That can be true too.”
Meline folded her arms.
Garrison studied her.
Then:
“You’ll be paid.”
“For what?”
“Consulting.”
She laughed.
“I played a piano.”
“You identified evidence.”
“I identified handwriting.”
“That’s more than twenty specialists accomplished.”
“I’m not taking mafia consulting money.”
Garrison’s eyebrows lifted.
“Mafia?”
“That’s what people say.”
“People say many things.”
“Are they wrong?”
He looked almost amused.
“Somewhat.”
“That means no.”
“It means complicated.”
“Of course.”
He leaned against the desk.
“You need twenty-seven thousand six hundred dollars.”
Meline froze.
“How do you know that?”
“Your phone call happened on my security system before the outage.”
Anger flooded her.
“You listened?”
“No.”
“My security team flags financial distress among employees because it can create vulnerability.”
“That is somehow worse.”
“I agree.”
She blinked.
“You agree?”
“I didn’t build that protocol.”
“Whose idea?”
“Emmett’s.”
There it was again.
Emmett.
Meline’s anger shifted.
Garrison continued.
“I know because Bennett reviewed the alert after tonight’s breach.”
“I don’t want your money.”
“I didn’t offer charity.”
“It sounded like charity.”
“I offered payment for work.”
“What work?”
“Help me determine why my wife knew your mother.”
Meline stared.
“And if I refuse?”
“You remain employed. Nothing changes.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“You shouldn’t yet.”
That answer surprised her.
Garrison opened a drawer.
Placed an envelope on the desk.
“Written consulting agreement. Sloan did not prepare it.”
“Who did?”
“An outside attorney.”
“When?”
“In the last hour.”
“You summoned a lawyer at three in the morning?”
“I have useful relationships.”
She almost laughed.
He continued.
“Five thousand dollars for the first week.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“It’s less ridiculous than losing evidence because you’re working twelve-hour shifts.”
Meline looked at the agreement.
No exclusivity.
No debt.
No requirement to remain on property.
She could stop anytime.
“Why me?”
“Because Lydia left your mother’s name.”
He tapped the notebook.
“And because somebody stole that music the moment you identified it.”
Meline picked up the contract.
“I want my own lawyer to read it.”
“Good.”
Again.
Choice.
She nodded.
By eight, she drove to Berwyn with two security vehicles following at a distance.
Not beside her.
Her condition.
Garrison stayed at the estate.
Also her request.
The storage facility contained most of what remained from her old life.
Boxes of sheet music.
Family photographs.
Her conservatory programs.
Norah’s winter coats.
Meline opened the first box labeled MOM — DESK.
She found the photograph within six minutes.
Norah stood beside Lydia Vance.
The picture was dated four years earlier.
One year before Lydia died.
Behind them stood the grand piano from Garrison’s mansion.
Meline stared.
Her mother had been inside that room.
On the back, Norah had written:
Lydia finally heard the bridge.
Underneath:
Tell Meline one day.
Meline’s hands shook.
She searched harder.
A folder contained invoices.
Norah had been paid by the Vance Family Foundation.
Not as a musician.
As a cognitive research consultant.
Meline frowned.
Her mother had worked as a music therapist before becoming ill, but she had never spoken about private research.
Then she found Lydia’s letters.
Dear Norah,
Garrison had another episode last night. He still thinks it is stress.
Dear Norah,
The tone returned after his evening medication.
Dear Norah,
Please do not contact Emmett again.
Meline stopped.
Emmett.
Again.
The final letter was dated five days before Lydia died.
Norah,
I found the original prescription records.
You were right.
The dosage is not what Dr. Calder wrote.
Someone has been increasing it.
I am copying everything.
Tomorrow, I will speak to Garrison.
If he refuses to listen, I will leave the evidence inside the piano.
Meline’s breath stopped.
Inside the piano.
She called Garrison.
He answered immediately.
“What did you find?”
“My mother knew Lydia.”
“I know.”
“No. More than that.”
She read the letter.
Silence followed.
Then Garrison said:
“What medication?”
“Lydia didn’t name it.”
“Bring everything.”
“Garrison.”
It was the first time she had used his first name.
He noticed.
“What?”
“The letter says someone increased your medication before Lydia died.”
“I heard.”
“You’ve been taking medication for three years.”
“Yes.”
“Who manages it?”
Pause.
“Emmett.”
Meline closed her eyes.
“Then stop taking anything until an independent doctor sees it.”
“I can’t abruptly stop prescriptions.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“I know.”
His voice softened.
“I’ll contact someone outside the current team.”
“Not someone Emmett recommends.”
“No.”
She almost smiled.
“Good.”
Then she heard movement behind her.
Metal.
A storage door.
Meline turned.
The hallway outside her unit was empty.
But one of the security men appeared quickly.
“Ms. Rhodes?”
“I heard something.”
He checked.
At the far end, an emergency exit slowly closed.
Someone had been inside.
Meline looked down.
One box had been moved.
The one containing Norah’s medical files.
“Someone was here.”
The guard drew his phone.
“We leave now.”
Meline grabbed the Lydia letters.
Then noticed something on the floor.
A small prescription bottle.
Not her mother’s.
Label:
GARRISON VANCE.
Medication:
Clonazepam.
But the dosage was wrong.
Meline remembered seeing the same drug listed on one of Lydia’s letters.
On the back of the bottle someone had written in black marker:
ASK CALDER WHAT HE PRESCRIBED.
Meline called Garrison again.
No answer.
She tried Bennett.
No answer.
Then Vincent from security.
Nothing.
Her stomach tightened.
One of the guards touched his earpiece.
“We lost contact with the estate.”
“Why?”
“Unknown.”
Meline stared at the bottle.
Then her phone rang.
Garrison.
She answered.
“Garrison?”
His breathing came hard.
“Meline.”
“What happened?”
“The noise.”
“Where are you?”
“Study.”
“Do you have the piano?”
“No.”
“Hum the melody.”
Silence.
“What?”
“The first eight measures. Hum them.”
He did.
Barely.
His voice rough and uneven.
Meline joined him.
Softly.
The tune traveled through the phone.
His breathing slowed.
“Again,” he whispered.
She repeated it.
Then a crash sounded behind him.
“Garrison?”
No answer.
Another sound.
Footsteps.
Then Emmett’s voice:
“Give me the phone.”
The line went dead.
Meline’s blood turned cold.
She looked at the guard.
“We’re going back.”
He hesitated.
“My orders—”
“Your boss may be in danger.”
The guard’s expression changed.
They reached the estate twelve minutes later.
The gates were open.
Too open.
No one at the guard booth.
Meline ran inside.
Bennett lay unconscious near the foyer.
Alive.
A broken glass beside him.
Upstairs, Garrison’s study door was locked.
Meline pounded.
“Garrison!”
Nothing.
Then she heard it.
A piano melody.
Soft.
Wrong.
Coming from inside the study.
May you like
The stolen sheet music had returned.
And someone was playing it badly.
