Chapter 3
The name of Clara Ashcombe had not been spoken in this house since the winter of her passing.
For three years, the official narrative had stood as unyielding as the estate’s seawall: Clara, the beloved matriarch, had succumbed to an aggressive neurological degeneration in her private suite, attended faithfully by her dedicated private nurse, Ottoline, and supported by her grieving son, Ashcombe. When she passed in her sleep, she had been cremated within twenty-four hours according to her alleged private wishes, her ashes scattered across the northern Atlantic. Three months later, Ashcombe had married Ottoline in an intimate ceremony in Saint Thomas.
Lachlan had remained silent then. He had spent those months consolidating his hold over the eastern seaboard terminals, drowning his grief in corporate buyouts and backroom executions. He had allowed his son to take the master suite of the guest wing; he had allowed Ottoline to redecorate the drawing rooms.
Until now.
"Grandpa," Nola whispered from behind his trousers. Her little hands were covered in white fluff, her tiny thumbs still trying to tuck the batting inside the rabbit's torn underbelly. "It won't stay inside. It keeps falling out."
Lachlan didn't look down, but his heavy right hand found her shoulder, his fingers offering a gentle, immovable anchor.
On the padded bench, Ashcombe pushed himself up, leaning against the mahogany wood of the gift table. His lip was swollen to the size of a plum, dark blood dripping onto the lapel of his tailored navy suit. His fair skin was blotched with white spots of panic.
"Dad," Ashcombe croaked, his American accent strained, trying desperately to sound reasonable before eighty witnesses who controlled the municipal courts, the dockworkers' union, and the private banks. "You’ve had too much whiskey. You're confusing things. Mother was sick. You know she was sick."
"I know she was sick," Lachlan replied. His voice was quiet, terrifyingly measured. "And I know she had a cedar chest in her dressing room. A chest with three brass locks. A chest that was supposed to contain every personal effect she owned when the room was cleared."
Ottoline swallowed. Her throat clicked audibly in the silence. She smoothed her emerald gown, her diamond earrings shivering. "Lachlan, this is insane. Nola found a rag in the linen closet. The maids use old fabric for cleaning rags all the time. How could any of us possibly know—"
"The scarf was woven in Lyon," Lachlan interrupted, not even turning his head toward her. "Special commission. Twelve pieces produced in 1994. Clara kept it locked in her private jewelry vault because it was the scarf she wore the night Nola was born. She swore it would belong to the girl when she turned eighteen."
Lachlan took one step toward his son. His polished leather shoes made no sound on the runner, but Ashcombe visibly recoiled, pressing his spine hard against the wall.
"How did it end up in a scrap pile, Ashcombe?" Lachlan asked softly. "Who took the shears to Clara’s vault?"
"Nobody touched her vault!" Ashcombe stammered, his eyes darting frantically toward the front doors where two more armed guards had quietly taken up positions. "The inventory was handled by the estate attorneys! You signed off on it, Dad! You signed the release!"
"I signed a release for her clothes to be donated to the convent," Lachlan said. He reached down with his left hand, gently lifting the corner of the fabric rabbit from Nola’s grasp, holding it up into the clean, unforgiving sunlight. "I did not sign a release for my wife’s memories to be torn apart and stuffed into a nursery basket."
He turned to the towering bodyguard standing beside Ottoline.
"Thorne," Lachlan said.
"Yes, Mr. Ashcombe," the man replied instantly.
"Clear the ballroom. Take our guests to the terrace pavilion. Ensure the catering staff serves the vintage port. Inform the councilmen that my birthday address is postponed by twenty minutes."
"Understood, sir."
A flutter of nervous rustling broke out as Thorne and four other security men began directing the crowd toward the outer French doors. The guests didn't argue. They moved quickly, their heads down, terrified that witnessing another second of the Ashcombe family bloodletting might cost them their contracts—or their lives.
Within two minutes, the vast marble room was empty of outsiders.
May you like
Only the five of them remained: Lachlan, Nola clutching her broken toy, Ashcombe bleeding on the velvet bench, Ottoline shaking in her emerald silk, and Thorne standing like an iron sentinel before the closed oak doors.
"Now," Lachlan said, turning his slate-gray eyes directly onto Ottoline. "Let’s talk about the cedar chest."
