Chapter 4
Rosamund’s brother was named Nathaniel Arden.
He had not entered Hawthorne House in three years.
Not because we hated each other.
Because grief made us poor company.
He blamed himself for missing Rosamund’s final week.
I blamed myself for being there and still losing her.
Different versions of useless guilt.
I called him.
He answered on the fourth ring.
“Percival?”
“Where is Rosamund’s desk key?”
Silence.
Too long.
Then:
“Why?”
“Answer.”
He exhaled.
“I gave it to Isabetta.”
My hand tightened around the phone.
Celandine closed her eyes.
Isabetta looked down.
“When?”
“Two months ago.”
“Why?”
Nathaniel thought she wanted to surprise me.
A wedding gift.
A small collection of Rosamund’s letters and photographs, professionally preserved.
A gesture showing Isabetta respected what came before her.
That actually sounded like something she might have done.
Once.
Nathaniel trusted it.
He sent the key.
“Did you know she copied Rosamund’s handwriting?”
Silence.
“No.”
“Did you know she hired a woman to wear the gown?”
“What?”
Good.
He knew nothing.
Then he asked:
“What happened?”
“Come tomorrow.”
I ended the call.
Isabetta whispered:
“He wanted you to move on too.”
“Do not borrow his intentions.”
She flinched.
Good.
Then I opened Rosamund’s writing desk.
The locked drawer had been disturbed.
Inside were old letters.
Most intact.
One bundle missing.
The Sebastian letters.
Of course.
I remembered Rosamund keeping them after our marriage.
Not romance.
Records.
Sebastian’s notes proving the meetings involved something dangerous enough to keep private.
I had never read them all.
Rosamund asked me not to.
I trusted her.
Maybe too absolutely.
“Where are the originals?”
Isabetta stared at the floor.
“Safe.”
“Where?”
“Not here.”
My eyes narrowed.
Then Maribel spoke.
“The man has them.”
“What man?”
“The one in the photographs.”
I looked at her.
“Sebastian?”
She nodded.
That surprised me more than anything yet.
Sebastian Vale himself had participated.
Not an actor.
Not a substitute.
The real man Rosamund once met secretly was helping my fiancée manufacture evidence that those meetings were romantic.
Why?
I called him.
He answered immediately.
As if waiting.
“Percival.”
“You have ten seconds to tell me why you’re wearing my dead wife’s history like a costume.”
He sighed.
Then said:
“Because Isabetta finally found the young man Rosamund saved.”
My body went cold.
“Who?”
May you like
Sebastian answered.
“Her father.”
