The Heiress Who Learned Too Well

Chapter 3 The Notebook

I read the notebook in my room that night, with the door locked and the curtains drawn. It was less a diary than a codebook, a series of entries about the foundation, the family, the people who surrounded them. Some of it I didn't understand. Some of it made my blood run cold.

Entry 1: Rosalind is not who she says she is. Her real name is Rosalind Kerr. She came to this country eleven years ago under circumstances I have not yet been able to confirm. She has no family. She has no past. She has only ambition.

Entry 7: The foundation board is compromised. Two members have been taking payments from R.K. for over a year. I have the bank records. If something happens to me, they will be in my safety deposit box at First Coastal Bank, account number 4471.

Entry 12: I confronted R. today. I told her I knew about the payments. She laughed at me. She said I was a ghost already, that I just hadn't realized it. She said I should think about my daughter.

I stopped reading. The words blurred. My mother had known. She had known what Rosalind was, and she had done nothing to protect herself.

No. That wasn't fair. She had tried. She had documented everything. She had put it in a safety deposit box. She had written the notebook for me.

I flipped to the last page. The handwriting was shakier here.

Entry 20: I am afraid of R. She has a partner. I do not know his name, but I saw them together at the marina. He is tall, with gray hair. He drives a black car with a parking sticker from the yacht club. He is not from here. I think he is dangerous.

Entry 21: If you are reading this, Vivienne, I am sorry. I should have left sooner. I should have taken you away the moment I realized what she was. But I was too proud. I thought I could win. I was wrong.

I love you. Do not trust your father. He means well, but he is weak. Do not trust anyone who comes to you with kind words. Find the safety deposit box. Use what is inside.

And run.

The notebook ended there. I sat in the dark, holding it, and I felt something I had not felt in three years. Not grief. Not anger. A kind of cold clarity, like stepping into water and knowing exactly how deep it is.

My mother had not died in an accident. Or she had, but not by chance.

I thought of the boathouse, the fire, the electrical report. I thought of my father, who had burned my mother's letter and never looked for a second one. I thought of Rosalind, who had told me to ask my father, because she knew he would give me the notebook, and she knew the notebook would lead me exactly where she wanted me to go.

Or maybe not. Maybe he had given me the notebook against her wishes. Maybe the unknown texter was her, trying to scare me. Or maybe it was someone else entirely.

My phone buzzed.

Unknown: You found the notebook.

I stared at the screen.

Unknown: Good. Now find the box.

Me: Who are you?

Unknown: Someone who wants the same thing you want.

Me: What's that?

Unknown: Justice.

I typed back, My mother is dead. Will you tell me who killed her?

The response took a long time.

Unknown: It wasn't the fire.

I waited, but no more messages came. I stared at those four words until my eyes burned. It wasn't the fire. Then what was it? The fire had burned her body, that was what the report said. She had died in the boathouse. How could it not be the fire?

Unless the fire had been set to hide something else.

I got up and went to the window. The night was clear, and out beyond the garden, the guest house glowed with a single light. Rosalind was awake. I knew she was busy, maybe reading, maybe planning. Maybe looking at her filing cabinet.

I had Margaux on the inside. I had my mother's notebook and the promise of a safety deposit box. I had an unknown ally who could be a friend or an enemy. And I had the house, the trust, and a board meeting that was still mine to claim.

But none of it mattered if I didn't know the truth.

I sat back down and opened the notebook again. Entry 12 had mentioned the payments. Entry 20 had mentioned a partner. I needed to find the bank records and identify the man with the gray hair. I needed to find that box.

But first I needed to know: who was sending me messages, and why did they think my mother's death wasn't the fire?

I typed one more time.

Me: Tell me your name.

The answer came fast.

Unknown: Eleanor kept more secrets than you know.