Chapter 6 - THE WALL BEHIND THE PIANO
My childhood home had been empty for nearly two years.
Robert moved out after I married Adrian.
He claimed the memories were too painful.
My mother knew exactly where to go.
The music room.
My old piano still stood against the east wall.
Eleanor pushed it aside with help from two investigators.
Behind it was a narrow wooden panel.
She removed four screws.
Inside the wall sat a metal box.
My father stared.
“I never knew.”
My mother looked at him.
“That was the point.”
The ledger contained handwritten records from Malcolm.
Names.
Dates.
Amounts.
Politicians.
Contractors.
Judges.
Executives.
Adrian appeared first at twenty-three.
At twenty-four, he received $420,000.
At twenty-five, over a million.
Then came a note.
A.V. useful.
Ambitious.
Needs Bennett access.
My stomach turned.
My marriage had been imagined before Adrian ever met me.
Then we found Margaret’s name.
M.V. handles Robert.
Keeps letters away.
Maintains widow narrative.
My father sat down heavily.
“She did this.”
His trusted assistant had stayed beside him during grief.
Managed appointments.
Opened mail.
Answered phones.
Comforted him.
And intercepted my mother’s letters.
Robert began crying.
“She was in my house.”
Eleanor looked at him.
“I know.”
“She knew I couldn’t sleep.”
“I know.”
“She watched Claire cry for you.”
My mother’s expression broke.
“I know.”
There are betrayals that produce anger.
Then there are betrayals so intimate they leave no room for immediate emotion.
My father simply stared at the wall.
Investigators copied the ledger.
Then one agent frowned.
“Pages are missing.”
The binding showed six sheets had been removed.
My mother stared at the gap.
“What years?”
The dates jumped from twelve years ago to nine years ago.
The exact period when Adrian’s company began expanding rapidly.
Someone had removed the most important section.
My phone buzzed.
A photograph arrived from an unknown number.
The missing pages.
Someone had photographed them.
Beneath the image was one message.
ASK YOUR HUSBAND WHAT HAPPENED TO MALCOLM.
I looked at my mother.
“Didn’t Uncle Malcolm die of a heart attack?”
She went still.
“That’s what I was told.”
My father looked up.
“No.”
My skin prickled.
“What?”
Robert swallowed.
“Malcolm died in a hotel fire.”
My mother stared at him.
“That isn’t what Adrian told me.”
Silence.
Different people had been given different stories about the same dead man.
That meant only one thing.
May you like
Malcolm’s death might have been another disappearance.
Or another murder.
