Chapter 3 - EMILY'S LAST MORNING“Disappeared how?” I asked.
Mason ended the call.
“We don't know yet.”
“You just said she disappeared.”
“Her neighbor found the front door unlocked. Her purse was still inside. Her car was still in the driveway.”
He looked at the silver heart on my blanket.
“And the police found something else.”
“What?”
“An envelope addressed to you.”
My stomach tightened.
“To me?”
Mason nodded.
He handed it to me.
My name was written across the front in faded blue ink.
CLAIRE MORGAN.
I recognized the handwriting.
Emily's.
My fingers trembled as I opened it.
Inside was a photograph.
A young Emily stood beside a little girl.
The child couldn't have been more than six.
She was holding a yellow crayon drawing.
The same drawing from Mason's folder.
I turned the photograph over.
There was one sentence.
She was the only person who saw what Margaret did.
I looked at Mason.
“Who is the girl?”
“We don't know yet.”
“Then find out.”
“We're trying.”
“No.”
My voice surprised both of us.
“You're going to tell me everything you know.”
Mason pulled a chair closer.
“Emily had been investigating financial transfers involving the family foundation.”
“What foundation?”
“The Morgan Family Trust.”
I stared at him.
“That trust belonged to Ethan's father.”
“Yes.”
“My husband told me it was mostly gone.”
“It wasn't.”
Mason opened another file.
“Eleven years ago, the trust held approximately eighteen million dollars.”
I felt dizzy.
“And now?”
“Technically, almost nothing.”
“Technically?”
He nodded.
“Over the years, money moved through several private companies.”
“Margaret?”
“We have evidence pointing toward her.”
“Evidence isn't enough.”
“No.”
He looked at me.
“That's why Emily was dangerous.”
A nurse entered to check my medication.
When she left, Mason continued.
“Emily discovered that the money wasn't simply stolen.”
“What do you mean?”
“It was redirected.”
“To where?”
“We don't know.”
He showed me a copy of an old ledger.
Several pages were missing.
But one line remained.
Project Willow — $4.8 million.
“What is Project Willow?”
“We haven't found it.”
I stared at the name.
“Emily did.”
“Yes.”
“And that's why she died.”
Mason didn't answer.
That silence was answer enough.
Later that evening, a detective brought in another object recovered from the Morgan house.
A man's wristwatch.
Old.
Gold.
Scratched across the back were the initials R.M.
“Who is R.M.?”
“Richard Morgan,” Mason said.
“Ethan's father?”
“Yes.”
I remembered Ethan once telling me his father had died peacefully in his sleep.
“He never talked about his father.”
“Most people don't talk about the parts of their families they are ashamed of.”
I looked at the watch.
Something felt wrong.
“Where was this?”
“Inside the wall cavity.”
“Near Emily's bracelet?”
“Yes.”
I turned the watch over.
There was a tiny seam along the back.
I pressed it.
Nothing happened.
Then I noticed a small indentation shaped like a heart.
The same shape as Emily's bracelet charm.
I pressed again.
The back of the watch opened.
Inside was a tiny folded photograph.
Mason leaned closer.
The picture showed Richard Morgan, Margaret, and another man standing outside a building.
The sign above the door read:
WILLOW HOUSE — FAMILY SERVICES.
I looked at Mason.
“This isn't a company.”
“No.”
“It was a children's home.”
He nodded.
“Closed twelve years ago.”
“Why?”
“Funding disappeared.”
I stared at the photograph.
“Who was the man?”
Mason zoomed in.
His face was partially obscured.
But I recognized the coat.
Dark wool.
Silver buttons.
I had seen it in my own house.
Ethan's coat.
My blood ran cold.
“That's Ethan.”
Mason looked carefully.
“It might be.”
“No.”
I shook my head.
“I know that coat.”
He didn't argue.
Instead, he turned the photograph over.
Written in Emily's handwriting were five words.
Richard didn't steal the money.
I stared.
“Then who did?”
Mason looked at me.
“That is the question.”
A moment later, Ethan's attorney arrived.
He said Ethan wanted to speak with me.
Alone.
I refused.
But then the attorney placed something on my blanket.
A child's yellow drawing.
The same house.
The same red-circled window.
Only this time, there was a fourth figure.
A tall man standing behind the house.
And beneath it, written in a child's uneven handwriting:
Mom said never tell Margaret.
I looked up.
“Where did you get this?”
The attorney swallowed.
“Ethan gave it to me.”
My heart stopped.
“Where is the child now?”
He didn't answer.
May you like
Instead, he said,
“Claire, Ethan believes Margaret has been searching for that child for eleven years.”
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