Chapter 4 - THE LOCKED ROOM OF ISABEL VALE
I didn't tell Adrian about the sympathy card immediately.
Part of me couldn't explain why.
Perhaps because I had spent three weeks holding that card whenever my grief became unbearable.
Someone I didn't know had written:
Your daughter mattered. Seventeen hours are still a lifetime of love.
I had read those words dozens of times.
Now I was standing beside the husband of the woman who might have written them.
A woman who had somehow known about me before I knew she existed.
When we returned to the estate, the place looked different.
Police officers and independent investigators had already documented the nursery and questioned the staff about Lucas's feeding equipment.
Adrian had initially wanted to handle everything privately.
Dr. Bennett and I had insisted otherwise.
"If someone deliberately harmed Lucas, he deserves an investigation that can stand up in court," I told him.
Adrian disliked the argument.
But he accepted it.
The bottle recovered from Isabel's bedroom had been taken for testing.
The room remained sealed until investigators finished examining it.
That evening, Adrian found me standing outside its door.
"Looking for something?"
I turned.
"Answers."
He looked at the door.
"I haven't been inside since her funeral."
"Would she have wanted that?"
"I don't know."
I hesitated.
"Can I show you something?"
I retrieved the sympathy card from my bag.
Adrian studied the handwriting.
His face changed immediately.
"Where did you get this?"
"It was delivered to me after Grace died."
He examined the message.
Then closed his eyes.
"That's Isabel's handwriting."
My chest tightened.
"Why would she write to me?"
"I don't know."
"Adrian, did your wife ever visit my bakery?"
He shook his head.
"Not that she told me."
I looked at the card again.
There was no return address.
Only the hospital's delivery sticker.
I turned it over.
The date was three days before Isabel died.
Suddenly, everything felt connected.
My daughter's death.
Isabel's sympathy card.
The photograph of my bakery.
The bottle.
And the child who had nearly died in my arms.
Two days later, investigators released Isabel's bedroom after documenting its contents.
Adrian opened the door himself.
The room smelled faintly of lavender.
A pale blue dress hung over a chair.
Books were stacked beside the bed.
A half-finished embroidery project rested near the window.
Nothing about the room suggested the woman who lived there had expected to die.
On the nightstand stood a photograph of Adrian and Isabel on a beach.
She was laughing.
He was holding her around the waist.
I studied the photograph.
"You looked happy."
"We were."
He spoke without bitterness.
"People think marriages like ours are arrangements between powerful families. Isabel was the only person who ever told me I was being an idiot and expected me to thank her."
I smiled faintly.
"She sounds wonderful."
"She was."
Adrian approached the dresser.
He opened the top drawer and removed a small wooden jewelry box.
Inside were rings, earrings, and a folded hospital bracelet.
He picked up the bracelet.
ISABEL VALE — MATERNITY.
His fingers tightened.
I gave him space.
Then I noticed something beneath the jewelry box.
A narrow notebook.
Its cover was faded green.
"Adrian?"
He turned.
"Was this hers?"
He nodded.
"She wrote everything down."
I opened the notebook.
At first, the pages contained ordinary entries.
Appointments.
Shopping lists.
Baby names.
A reminder to buy yellow curtains for the nursery.
Then the handwriting changed.
The entries became shorter.
More urgent.
September 11 — Marcus says the records were destroyed. I don't believe him.
September 14 — Asked Bennett about the transfers. He looked frightened.
September 17 — Need to speak with Hannah Brooks before the next meeting.
My heart stopped.
I read the final line again.
My name.
Written weeks before Isabel died.
Adrian came closer.
"What?"
I showed him the page.
His expression hardened.
"Marcus?"
"Your security chief."
He looked at the notebook.
"He's worked for me for twelve years."
I turned another page.
September 18 — If I disappear, the answer is not in the money. It's in the children.
A cold sensation moved through my body.
"What children?" I whispered.
Adrian didn't answer.
Because at that exact moment, someone knocked.
It was Marcus Rourke.
His expression was perfectly calm.
"Boss, the investigators need to speak with you."
Adrian closed the notebook.
Marcus glanced at it.
Just once.
May you like
But I saw the recognition in his eyes.
And I knew he had seen that green cover before.
