Chapter 5 - The Velvet Box
The estate went completely dark at ten o'clock.
From the second-story window of Raymond’s room, I watched the lights extinguish in the west wing. Christopher’s master suite was situated on the opposite side of the central gallery, across sixty feet of vaulted ceiling and polished parquet floor that amplified every footstep like a gunshot.
Christopher was a night drinker. Every evening after dinner, he poured himself three fingers of Macallan and retreated to his private study to review market closes on the Tokyo exchange. If he followed his routine, he would be asleep by eleven-fifteen, heavily sedated by alcohol and arrogance.
I had spent the last two hours preparing.
I packed a small canvas diaper bag with the bare essentials: Theodore’s passport, my birth certificate, four diapers, a can of formula, and three clean syringes filled with sterile saline from the bathroom cupboard, just in case Raymond needed another flush.
Theodore was already fast asleep in the travel bassinet beside Raymond’s bed, swaddled tightly in his favorite fleece blanket with the little brown bears.
Raymond was sitting fully upright now. The color had returned to his cheeks, transforming him from a corpse into a gaunt, weathered warrior. He had managed to swing his legs over the edge of the mattress twice, testing his quadriceps. They shook like birch trees in an autumn gale, but they held his weight for nearly ten seconds before I caught him.
“You’re doing too much too fast,” I whispered, rubbing his calves to stimulate circulation.
“Every second we waste… is a second closer to dawn,” Raymond breathed. “Get the drive, Nora. Then we find a way past the gate.”
I took off my sneakers, leaving only my thick wool socks on my feet to muffle the sound of my steps. I pulled my dark cardigan tight around my shoulders, took a deep breath, and walked across the bedroom toward the expansive walk-in closet.
The closet was the size of a master bedroom in any normal apartment. Two long rows of bespoke suits hung in silent, tailored rows beneath recessed track lighting that I dared not turn on. The only illumination came from the ambient moonlight filtering through the high clerestory windows above the shelving.
The scent of fine wool, cedar, and Raymond’s old sandalwood cologne hung heavy in the air.
I moved to the back wall. Just as Raymond had described, the shoe racks were built of aromatic cedar, holding dozens of polished oxfords and loafers. I climbed onto the lower bench, stretching my fingers toward the top shelf.
My fingertips brushed against smooth, polished wood.
A rosewood box, about the size of a paperback novel.
I lifted it down, holding my breath. The box was heavier than it looked, adorned with intricate brass corner brackets. I opened the lid. Inside, resting on dark green velvet, were eight pairs of silver and gold cufflinks, an antique pocket watch, and a tie clip bearing the Winslow family crest.
My fingers searched the interior rim.
Near the back hinge, beneath the velvet lining, I felt a tiny, raised imperfection. A metal pin no larger than the head of a match.
I pressed it with the tip of my fingernail.
With a soft, mechanical *click*, the bottom tray sprang upward a quarter of an inch.
Beneath it lay a sleek, black metal USB drive with the Winslow Logistics logo laser-etched onto its side, alongside an old brass key stamped with the number *402*.
A cold rush of triumph washed through me.
I picked up the drive and the key, shoving them into the zippered interior pocket of my cardigan, right over my pounding heart. I reset the false bottom, arranged the cufflinks, and placed the rosewood box back on the high cedar shelf.
As I stepped down from the bench, a sudden floorboard creaked in the bedroom behind me.
My blood turned to ice.
I froze in the doorway of the closet, peering out through the heavy mahogany louvers.
Standing in the center of the dark bedroom, his silhouette framed by the faint glow of the bathroom nightlight, was Christopher.
He wasn't wearing his suit anymore. He wore a dark silk robe, his hair uncombed, holding a highball glass half-filled with amber scotch. In his left hand, hanging loosely at his side, was a heavy steel flashlight.
He wasn't looking at the closet.
He was looking directly at the bed.
My lungs locked. I couldn't breathe. Theodore was in the bassinet three feet from where Christopher stood. If my baby made a sound—if he so much as whimpered in his sleep—Christopher would turn.
On the bed, Raymond had dropped back against the pillows. His eyes were closed, his jaw slack, his breathing forced into the slow, ragged cadence of a dying man.
Christopher took two slow steps toward the bed. The ice in his glass clinked against the crystal.
“You stubborn old bastard,” Christopher muttered, his voice thick with scotch and venom. “You just won't let go, will you?”
He reached down with the end of the heavy steel flashlight and pressed the cold metal rim against Raymond’s temple.
From the shadows of the closet, every mother’s instinct in my body screamed at me to launch myself at him, to drive my nails into his eyes. But I stayed motionless, digging my fingernails into my palms until I felt the skin break.
Raymond didn't move. He didn't blink. He lay beneath the cold pressure of the flashlight like a slab of marble.
Christopher let out a low, disgusted snort and pulled the light away.
“Dr. Wallace said you wouldn't make it to sunrise,” Christopher whispered, leaning over his uncle until his face was inches away. “I certainly hope he’s right, Raymond. Because Marcus Vance is coming back at eight in the morning with the probate court clerk. And if your heart hasn't stopped on its own by then… I’m going to make sure it does.”
Christopher took a long, slow drink from his glass, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and turned his back on the bed.
He began walking toward the closet door.
My heart felt like a trapped bird beating violently against my ribs. There was nowhere to hide. The closet had only one entrance. If he pulled the louvered door open, he would find me standing in my socks in the pitch black.
Three steps. Two steps.
Christopher stopped.
He reached toward the light switch on the wall beside the closet door.
Behind him, from the bassinet, Theodore shifted.
A soft, tiny gasp escaped my baby’s lips, followed by the wet, suckling sound of his thumb finding his mouth.
Christopher’s hand paused on the switch. He looked toward the bassinet, his eyes narrowing in irritation.
“Filthy little rat,” he muttered under his breath, disgusted by the reminder that a lower-class child was sleeping under his roof.
He didn't touch the light switch. Instead, he shook his head in annoyance, turned on his heel, and strode out of the bedroom, leaving the door standing wide open.
I sank onto the closet floor, my forehead pressed against the cedar shoe rack, trembling so hard that my teeth chattered in my skull.
In my pocket, the metal flash drive pressed hard against my chest.
We had the evidence.
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And we had less than eight hours before Christopher Winslow came back to murder his uncle with his bare hands.
***
