Chapter 3 - THE LOCKED ROOM IN THE EAST WING
Three days after the wedding, I returned to Whitmore House.
Not alone.
Damien came with me.
So did a lawyer named Eleanor Price.
My parents greeted us in the drawing room.
My mother looked at my dress.
A simple blue one Rosa had helped me choose.
Her expression tightened.
“You look tired.”
I smiled faintly.
“Good morning to you too.”
She blinked.
Damien stood beside me.
My father looked nervous.
“Damien.”
“Arthur.”
The men shook hands.
Neither smiled.
I asked to collect my belongings.
My mother hesitated.
“Everything you need can be sent.”
“No.”
My voice surprised even me.
“I want to get my things myself.”
The east wing smelled exactly as I remembered.
Lavender.
Disinfectant.
Old carpet.
I walked toward my bedroom.
Then stopped.
The door was locked.
I stared.
My mother appeared behind us.
“It's for your own good.”
I turned.
“Why?”
She frowned.
“Nadia, don't start.”
Damien stepped forward.
“Open it.”
My mother looked at him.
“Excuse me?”
His voice remained calm.
“Your daughter asked for her belongings.”
My father appeared.
“There's no need for this.”
Eleanor spoke.
“Mrs. Blackwell has a legal right to retrieve her personal property.”
My mother reluctantly handed over the key.
I opened the door.
My room looked unchanged.
The narrow bed.
The pale curtains.
The shelves of medical supplies.
But something was missing.
The wooden box beneath my bed.
My grandmother had given it to me when I was thirteen.
Inside were letters.
Photographs.
A small silver bracelet.
I turned.
“Where's my box?”
My mother went pale.
“What box?”
I stared.
“The one under my bed.”
She looked away.
Then said:
“We threw it out.”
My heart stopped.
“You what?”
“It was clutter.”
I looked at Damien.
He was watching my mother.
Not with anger.
With recognition.
As though her reaction confirmed something he'd already suspected.
Later, as we left, Damien leaned toward me.
“Did your grandmother ever tell you something about your childhood?”
I swallowed.
“She said I was stronger than they wanted me to believe.”
Damien's expression changed.
“Anything else?”
I thought.
Then remembered.
A sentence she'd whispered shortly before she died.
If they ever tell you that you don't remember correctly, trust the little blue book.
I looked at Damien.
“The blue book.”
He frowned.
“What blue book?”
May you like
My heart began racing.
“My grandmother kept a diary.”
