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Sophia sits in the rear of the car across from you, barefoot, soaked, young enough to look out of place in the leather-and-quiet world your driver knows how to build around grief. She keeps her hands folded in her lap, but her eyes never leave the silver bracelet resting in your palm. Every few seconds, your thumb runs over the tiny scratch near the clasp, the one you remember because Rebecca laughed when she first snagged it against the corner of a restaurant table and told you that maybe the bracelet had already learned marriage.It should have been in her coffin.That thought keeps striking through you with fresh violence every time the car turns.
By the time you reach the gates of the estate, the security lights are already burning across the driveway in cold white stripes. Men in dark rain jackets move with efficient urgency under the portico. Your head of security, Daniel Cross, meets you before the car fully stops, his face set in the hard expression of someone who knows the line between family tragedy and operational threat has just disappeared.“Sir,” he says, opening your door, “we sealed the private wing.”
You step out into the rain with the bracelet still clenched in your fist.
Sophia hesitates behind you until Daniel notices her. One look at her age, her wet clothes, and the fact that she is stepping out of your car instead of anyone else’s tells him enough to say nothing. He only nods once and gestures for one of the staff to bring towels and shoes.“What happened?” you ask.
Daniel glances toward the east side of the house, toward the corridor that has remained closed since the funeral.
“A motion sensor tripped in Mrs. Nelson’s suite thirty-eight minutes ago,” he says. “We found the dressing room panel open. The safe compartment behind it had been accessed. And, sir…” He pauses. “The access log shows someone used your brother’s override credentials.”
The sentence lands harder than the storm.For one second, all the air in your chest seems to turn to glass. Not because you fully believe it yet. Because Adrian’s name should not be anywhere near Rebecca’s wing, not after two years of staged respect, quiet condolences, and his constant role as the one person who stayed close when everyone else learned how to let your grief become background.
“Adrian was here?” you ask.
Daniel’s jaw tightens.