Chapter 5 - The Woman in the Frame
I didn't sleep.
The second-floor guest room was bigger than our entire apartment on West 65th Street. The bed had silk sheets and four down pillows, but every time I closed my eyes, I heard the mechanical hiss of Grace’s oxygen mask and the frantic rhythm of the heart monitors.
Beside me, Annie was breathing softly, her tiny face finally peaceful under the weight of a heavy duvet.
Around 2:00 AM, unable to bear the oppressive silence of the room, I slipped out of bed, careful not to wake her. My bare feet sank into the plush runner carpets lining the endless hallway.
The house was dark, save for the low nightlights embedded along the baseboards. I didn't know what I was looking for. Proof, maybe. A reason to believe that Arthur Whitmore wasn't just a monster who had stepped in at the last second to play savior.
At the end of the long gallery, a pair of double oak doors stood slightly ajar. A faint sliver of amber light spilled across the threshold.
I crept closer, holding my breath, and pushed the door open.
It was a library—or rather, a private study. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined every wall, packed with thousands of leather-bound volumes. A massive mahogany desk dominated the center of the room, lit by a single banker’s lamp.
Behind the desk, dominating the entire far wall, was a life-sized portrait set in a massive gilded frame.
I walked toward it as if pulled by an invisible string.
The painting depicted a woman in her late thirties, seated on a stone bench in the middle of a sunlit rose garden. She had kind, radiant green eyes, high cheekbones, and dark, wavy hair pulled back in an elegant twist. Beside her stood a young girl, perhaps eight years old, wearing a pale blue summer dress.
The little girl was our mother. The resemblance was so striking it made my breath hitch in my throat. She had the exact same mischievous tilt to her mouth that Annie had whenever she stole a cookie from the pantry.
But it was the older woman’s hand that made my blood run cold.
Her left hand rested gently upon the girl’s shoulder. On her ring finger was the exact ring Annie and I had found buried in the mud—a massive, emerald-cut diamond flanked by two tapered baguettes, set in antique platinum.
“Eleanor designed it herself,” a voice murmured from the shadows near the window.
I jumped, spinning around.
Arthur was sitting in a high-backed leather wing chair, half-hidden by the heavy velvet drapes. In his hand was a lowball glass containing a finger of dark amber whiskey. He hadn't changed out of his clothes. He looked as though he hadn't moved an inch since I left the dining room.
“Her name was Eleanor,” Arthur said, his eyes fixed on the portrait. “My wife. Your grandmother.”
“How did the ring get in the garden?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. “You said she lost it seventeen years ago.”
Arthur took a slow sip from his glass. The amber liquid caught the light of the banker's lamp.
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“She didn't lose it, Caleb,” Arthur said, a terrible, dry rattle in his voice. “She buried it.”
***
