Chapter 12
He said nothing.
I looked down at the letter.
“Why would she hide that call?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did she ever tell you she wanted us separated?”
Another silence.
“Alexander.”
“Yes,” he said.
The word landed softly, but it changed the shape of everything.
“When?”
“Not directly.”
“Then how?”
“She said you were unhappy. She said you deserved someone who understood your world.”
“And you believed her?”
“I didn’t want to believe her.”
“But you listened.”
“I listened because I thought she was concerned about you.”
I laughed once, without humor. “Concerned about me?”
“I know how it sounds.”
“You let her sit beside you at private dinners. You let her wear my necklace. You allowed your family to treat her as though she belonged in your life.”
“I never promised her anything.”
“Maybe not with words.”
He did not argue.
That was the problem with Alexander. When he finally understood he was wrong, he did not defend himself. He simply accepted the wound, as though admitting it could make up for causing it.
“Why did she write the letter?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Where did you find it?”
“In the box Grace made for you.”
“Grace put it there?”
“No. I think you did.”
“I didn’t.”
I frowned. “You sent me the box.”
“I found the box in the study, but I never opened the bottom compartment. I thought it was part of the box.”
I looked at the cardboard container.
There was a thin wooden panel beneath the drawings, almost invisible unless the box was turned upside down.
“Who else had access to your study?” I asked.
“Madison. My mother. The staff.”
“Olivia?”
He hesitated.
“She had been there.”
“How often?”
“Sometimes.”
“Before the birthday party?”
“Yes.”
“Did she know about Grace’s surprise?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did she know where the key was?”
“I showed Grace the storage room. Olivia may have seen it.”
I pressed my fingers to my temple.
The letter had been hidden beneath Grace’s drawings. Someone had placed it there after the accident—or perhaps before.
“Alexander,” I said, “when did you send the box?”
“This morning.”
“Who gave it to you?”
“I found it on my desk.”
“Was it there when you returned from the hospital?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Look at it.”
“What?”
“The box. Look for fingerprints, another note, anything that doesn’t belong.”
He exhaled. “Emily, it’s a cardboard box.”
“Please.”
A quiet moment passed.