Chapter 8 - The Trap Inside My Closet
We reached the penthouse before Eleanor did.
My father’s security team accompanied us.
So did Meridian’s general counsel.
So did an independent investigator.
I insisted on that.
If we found anything, I wanted a chain of custody Victor could not challenge.
Building management opened the door.
The apartment felt different.
Smaller.
The air still smelled faintly of Kendra’s perfume.
My coat was gone from the hallway.
The broken wineglass had been swept away.
Victor’s clothes remained.
Kendra’s suitcases did not.
I walked toward the bedroom.
The investigator followed with a camera.
My closet looked untouched.
I opened the lower drawer.
Nothing.
Then the investigator noticed a slight gap behind a storage box.
He pulled it forward.
A velvet case sat behind it.
I did not touch it.
He photographed it.
Then opened it wearing gloves.
Diamonds.
Pearls.
An emerald bracelet I had seen Eleanor wear at Christmas.
Russell exhaled through his nose.
“She really did it.”
The investigator photographed everything.
Then he noticed something else.
A tiny adhesive security tag.
My father’s lawyer smiled without humor.
“Mrs. Hayes may have just made a serious mistake.”
Eleanor had insured the jewelry.
The insurance company had serialized photographs.
More importantly, the emerald bracelet contained a recently replaced clasp.
The repair shop kept transaction records.
Security footage would show exactly who possessed the jewelry before it appeared in my closet.
At five twenty, Eleanor arrived.
She stepped off the elevator and froze.
Russell stood outside the apartment.
“Mrs. Hayes.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same.”
Eleanor’s gaze shifted toward the investigator.
Then toward me.
Her face changed.
Only slightly.
But enough.
“You.”
I leaned against the doorway.
“Me.”
She recovered quickly.
“I came to collect my son’s belongings.”
“Which belongings?”
“My son lives here.”
“Not anymore.”
Her lips tightened.
“This is Victor’s home.”
“No.”
I stepped aside.
“It never was.”
Eleanor stared at me.
I watched understanding begin to move across her face.
She had heard the Hartwell name before.
Everyone in her social circle had.
But she still had not connected it.
Russell decided to help.
“Mrs. Hayes, allow me to formally introduce Olivia Margaret Hartwell.”
Eleanor’s skin went pale.
I continued.
“Arthur Hartwell’s daughter.”
Her mouth opened.
No sound emerged.
I had spent seven years being evaluated by that woman.
My clothes.
My education.
My usefulness.
My family.
My worth.
Now Eleanor stared at me as if the laws of nature had changed.
“You lied.”
“Yes.”
May you like
I looked toward the velvet jewelry case resting in an evidence bag.
“And apparently, so did you.”
