Chapter 93
The Proxy Nobody Signed
Adrian had not been inside the Sterling family house since his grandfather’s funeral.
He told me this while we sat in the car outside the gate, watching two security cameras turn toward the windshield.
“You could have said that before we drove here,” I said.
“I thought it would sound dramatic.”
“It sounds relevant.”
Priya sat in the back seat with a legal pad and three copies of the subpoena request. “We are not breaking in. We are requesting a file and documenting the refusal if they deny access.”
“My father won’t refuse,” Adrian said.
“Why not?”
“Because he believes the house belongs to him.”
The gate opened before we touched the intercom.
Inside, everything looked as it had in the photographs: pale stone, clipped hedges, a fountain that never seemed to lose water. I had attended dinners here as Adrian’s assistant and left through the side entrance when guests began discussing his future as if he were not at the table.
Today, I entered beside him.
His father waited in the library. Marcus stood near the window. Neither man offered us a seat.
“You brought counsel,” his father said.
“We brought someone who can keep a record.”
Priya placed the subpoena request on the desk. “We request access to the Laurent file and any documents concerning the placement or guardianship of Camille Laurent’s child.”
Marcus did not look at the paper. “There is no legal basis for this demand.”
“Then you can state that in writing.”
My father-in-law looked at me. “You have become very confident.”
“I have become very specific.”
His mouth tightened.
Adrian stepped forward. “You told me the child was placed with people who could provide stability.”
“That was a private conversation.”
“It was also a statement of fact.”
“You are twisting a family discussion into an accusation.”
Priya lifted her pen. “For clarity, are you denying knowledge of the child’s current location?”
“I am declining to discuss a matter protected by confidentiality.”
“Confidentiality belongs to the client,” Priya said. “Not to the person who paid the lawyer.”
Marcus finally turned from the window. “You are making a dangerous assumption.”
“I am making a documented request.”
The housekeeper entered carrying a tray. Her hands trembled when she placed tea on the table. I recognized her from the years when Adrian lived here. Her name was Rose, and she had once slipped me a plate of food after a dinner during which no one noticed I had not eaten.
She looked at Adrian, then at me.
“Mrs. Sterling,” she said quietly, “your room is still upstairs.”
“I have never had a room here.”
“Not officially.”
Marcus moved toward her. “Rose.”
She lowered her eyes and left.
Adrian watched the door. “What did she mean?”
His father answered too quickly. “Nothing.”
The lie was so clean it revealed the shape of what it covered.
I turned to Priya. “Can we request the household staff records?”
“We can request anything. Whether we receive it is another question.”
Rose returned ten minutes later without the tea tray. She carried a brass key and held it out to Adrian.
“Your grandfather asked me to keep this,” she said.
Marcus crossed the room. “You were instructed to destroy it.”
Rose’s face went white.
Adrian took the key.
“When did he give you this?” Adrian asked.
“The night before he died.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Rose looked toward the library, where Marcus and Adrian’s father were arguing in low voices. “Because the next morning Marcus came to the servants’ hall and told us the east corridor was no longer part of the house.”
“He cannot remove a corridor,” I said.
“He can remove the people who use it.”
She rubbed her thumb over the brass key. “Your grandfather told me there was a girl’s file in the room. He said if anyone tried to move it, I was to give the key to you.”
Adrian’s gaze dropped to the key in his palm.
“Why me?”
“Because he believed you would finally ask what the family had asked you not to ask.”
The answer hurt him. I could see it in the way his shoulders pulled back, as if pain were another thing he could manage by improving his posture.
“Did you see the girl?” I asked.
Rose nodded. “Once.”
“When?”
“She was small. Maybe six. Camille brought her to the house during the spring review.”
Adrian looked up sharply. “Camille came here?”
“She was not allowed through the front door. Your grandfather met her in the east room.”
“What did they discuss?”
“I don’t know. I heard Camille crying. I heard your grandfather say, ‘You do not owe them a quiet child.’”
The phrase went through me.
My daughter moved beneath my ribs. I placed my hand over the movement. The child in the drawing had once been small enough to carry. Someone had still found a way to make her ask not to be sent away.
“Rose,” I said, “what was the girl’s name?”
She hesitated.
“Mara.”
Adrian’s breath stopped.
“Mara what?”
“I never heard a surname.”
Marcus appeared in the doorway. “That is enough.”
Rose flinched, but she did not leave.
I stepped between her and him. “No. It isn’t.”
“You are trespassing in a private residence.”
“You invited us in.”
“I invited Adrian.”
“His wife arrived with him.”
“The law does not give you access to every family room.”
“Then serve us a written refusal.”
Marcus’s eyes moved to my stomach. “You are making the child a weapon.”
Adrian spoke before I could. “Do not look at her like that.”
Marcus turned to him. “You are being manipulated.”
“By whom?”
“By the woman who replaced a bride and now wants the inheritance that bride refused.”
The old version of me would have defended the marriage. The new version understood that defending the accusation accepted its terms.
“You still think this is about money,” I said. “That is why you keep losing.”
Marcus’s face changed for the first time.
Behind him, the library door opened. Adrian’s father stepped out holding a ring of keys.
“Give me the brass key,” he said.
Adrian closed his fingers around it.
“No.”
His father stared at him. “You do not know what is in that room.”
“That is why I’m opening it.”
We reached the end of the corridor. The yellow drawing remained beneath the door. Adrian knelt to pick it up, and his thumb brushed the words on the back.
The lock turned.
“What does it open?” he asked.
“The room at the end of the east corridor.”
His father closed his eyes.
The room had been locked since the funeral.
As we climbed the stairs, Adrian’s hand found mine. He did not pull me behind him or place himself between me and the house.
He simply held on.
At the end of the corridor, the brass key slid into the lock.
Before he turned it, a child’s drawing showed beneath the door.
It was a yellow house with four people standing outside.
On the back, in a child’s careful handwriting, someone had written:
Please don’t let them send me away again.