Chapter 6 - The Woman Behind the Locked Door
Briarwood House had forty-three rooms.
I knew because I'd counted them when Dorian and I moved in.
There were twelve bedrooms.
Seven bathrooms.
Three sitting rooms.
A library.
A conservatory.
Two kitchens.
An indoor pool.
And a series of narrow service passages from the building's original construction.
But Clara described a room I'd never seen.
"The west tower," she said.
I frowned.
"There's no room in the west tower."
"Mom told me there was."
"The staircase was sealed decades ago."
"That's what she said."
I looked toward Helen.
She was sitting beside me.
When I mentioned the west tower, her face changed.
"What?" I asked.
Helen hesitated.
"Your mother used that room for document storage."
My heart hammered.
"Why didn't I know?"
"She wanted to keep certain business records secure."
I closed my eyes.
"Another secret."
Helen reached for my hand.
"Not every secret was meant to hurt you."
I looked at her.
"But all of them seem to have found a way."
---
Clara flew to Chicago the following week.
I met her at the airport.
I recognized her immediately.
She was standing beside a luggage cart wearing a green sweater and holding a small overnight bag.
When she saw me, she froze.
For a moment, we simply stared.
Then she began crying.
I crossed the terminal.
We embraced.
She was warm.
Real.
My sister.
Forty years of absence collapsed into one trembling moment.
"I'm sorry," I whispered.
She held me tighter.
"We're here now."
I closed my eyes.
Those words would become our promise.
---
Clara brought a small velvet pouch.
Inside lay an antique brass key with a carved rose on the handle.
My mother had given it to her during their last visit.
"She told me it belonged to the west tower," Clara explained.
"Why give it to you?"
"She said you might need someone outside the family business to help you one day."
I looked at her.
"You were outside the family business."
Clara nodded.
"Exactly."
We sat in Helen's living room reviewing Mom's letters.
One mentioned a room behind a concealed panel.
Another described a document cabinet.
A third contained a strange warning.
If Dorian discovers what the company truly owns, he will never forgive me for keeping it beyond his reach.
My stomach tightened.
Clara touched the paper.
"What does that mean?"
"I don't know."
But I intended to find out.
---
Naomi arranged another authorized inspection of Briarwood House.
Dorian was notified through counsel.
The process was documented.
Clara accompanied me.
When we arrived, the mansion looked strangely unfamiliar.
A black SUV stood near the garage.
Gardeners trimmed the hedges.
The fountain still ran.
Everything appeared normal.
As though my marriage hadn't collapsed inside those walls.
We entered through the main hall.
Margaret, now employed by me independently for archival assistance, walked beside us.
She knew the old service passages better than anyone.
"The west stairs are behind the library," she explained.
I remembered a narrow door concealed by heavy curtains.
Dorian had once told me it led to unsafe storage.
We reached it.
The door was locked.
Clara held out the key.
It fit.
My heart began pounding.
We climbed a narrow staircase.
Dust covered the banister.
At the top was a small landing.
Another door stood before us.
This one had a carved rose above the handle.
Clara touched it.
"Mom described this."
I unlocked it.
The hinges groaned.
Inside was a room flooded with afternoon sunlight.
Bookshelves lined the walls.
A long wooden table stood beneath the windows.
There were paintings wrapped in cloth.
A filing cabinet.
And a portrait of my mother.
She was younger.
Beautiful.
Wearing the sapphire necklace.
I covered my mouth.
For a moment, I felt as though she were standing there waiting for us.
Clara began crying.
We embraced.
Then Naomi quietly said, "There's someone else in this painting."
I turned.
Beside Mom stood a little girl.
About six years old.
Dark hair.
Green eyes.
I recognized myself.
But on the other side stood another girl.
Older.
Clara.
I stared.
My mother had commissioned a portrait of both her daughters together.
Even though we'd never met.
---
The filing cabinet contained original property records.
Architectural surveys.
Letters from historic preservation boards.
And documents concerning a group of buildings acquired by Vale Heritage Holdings.
Naomi examined the files carefully.
Then stopped.
"Audra, you need to see this."
I approached.
She pointed to a deed.
The property was an old lakeside sanitarium outside Chicago.
I recognized the name.
St. Agnes House.
Dorian had told me the building had been demolished decades ago.
But the deed showed it remained under trust ownership.
"What's special about it?" I asked.
Naomi looked at the attached records.
"It appears to have been used as a long-term care facility."
Clara leaned closer.
"There are patient records."
She opened a folder.
Inside were lists of women admitted between 1980 and 2005.
Some had been transferred.
Some discharged.
Some died.
And some had no recorded destination.
My skin prickled.
"What kind of patients?"
Clara examined the documents.
"Mostly women referred for psychiatric treatment."
I looked at Naomi.
"Why would Mom keep this?"
She turned another page.
Then her expression changed.
"Because Vale Heritage may have discovered that people were being held there under questionable legal authorizations."
I felt cold.
The room seemed to shrink.
Then Clara found a photograph.
It showed a young woman standing outside the facility.
She looked frightened.
On the back was a handwritten name.
Marianne Sorrell.
Clara looked at me.
"Audra?"
I stared at the photograph.
Sorrell.
May you like
Blythe's surname.
And suddenly I understood why Dorian's mistress might have been so interested in my mother's old records.
