Chapter 3 - THE MAN BESIDE THE STAIRCASE
Ethan admitted the button was his.
He did not admit he had seen Celeste push me.
There was a difference.
“I was home earlier than I said.”
We were alone in my hospital room.
Ortiz had already questioned him.
His attorney had advised him to stop talking.
He ignored that advice.
“You lied to police.”
“I corrected the statement.”
“After they found evidence.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Ethan looked exhausted.
“I saw Celeste arguing with you.”
“From where?”
“The library corridor.”
“You saw her push me?”
“No.”
“You expect me to believe you turned away at exactly the right second?”
“I heard Mother call my name.”
“Evelyn?”
“Yes.”
“She was in the drawing room.”
“I know.”
My eyes narrowed.
“So why did you follow her voice?”
“Because she sounded terrified.”
“What did she say?”
Ethan hesitated.
“She said, ‘Richard is here.’”
His father.
Dead eleven years.
I sat back.
“She was confused.”
“Yes.”
“Or drugged.”
Ethan’s face changed.
I showed him the laboratory report.
He read it twice.
Then he stood so quickly the chair hit the wall.
“Who gave her these?”
“I don’t know.”
“Celeste.”
“Maybe.”
“She manages Mother’s medications.”
“Sometimes.”
“Most of the time.”
His face hardened.
For the first time, I saw anger directed where it belonged.
Then I asked:
“What happened after Evelyn called you?”
“I went toward the drawing room.”
“And?”
“She wasn’t there.”
“Where was she?”
“Near the conservatory.”
“That’s across the house.”
“I know.”
“Then who called your name?”
He stared at me.
I felt cold.
Someone had imitated Evelyn’s voice.
Or played a recording.
Someone wanted Ethan away from the staircase before Celeste pushed me.
Which meant the shove was not simply Celeste losing control.
Someone may have planned it.
“Who knew you were in the library?”
I asked.
“Several people.”
“Names.”
“Celeste.”
“Mother.”
“Graham Mercer.”
I stopped.
Graham Mercer.
The Whitmore family attorney.
Sixty-three.
Impeccable manners.
Silver hair.
The man who had managed the family estate since Richard Whitmore was alive.
The man who drafted the amended will.
“Mercer was there?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Mother wanted to discuss the trust.”
My pulse accelerated.
“Which trust?”
Ethan looked at me.
“The one involving our baby.”
Of course.
That was why Celeste confronted me.
Earlier that night, Celeste had cornered me at the staircase.
She accused me of manipulating Evelyn.
She accused me of getting pregnant strategically.
Then she said something I dismissed at the time.
“You have no idea what Mother signed.”
Now it sounded different.
“What did Evelyn sign?”
I asked.
Ethan looked away.
“An amendment.”
“I know about the draft.”
“It’s no longer a draft.”
My stomach dropped.
“She signed it?”
“Last week.”
“Was she competent?”
“Mercer had a doctor certify her.”
“Which doctor?”
“Dr. Malcolm Pierce.”
I knew the name.
Evelyn’s private physician.
The same doctor prescribing the medication someone had tampered with.
I felt sick.
“The amendment removes you from control.”
Ethan nodded.
“And our child.”
“Yes.”
“Who gets it?”
He looked at me.
“Celeste.”
Everything became quiet.
Celeste had motive.
But perhaps too obvious a motive.
“Why didn’t you challenge it?”
“I intended to.”
“When?”
“After tonight’s meeting.”
“What meeting?”
Ethan lowered his voice.
“Mercer told me Mother had changed her mind again.”
I stared.
“He wanted everyone at the house.”
“For what?”
“To destroy the amendment.”
“Did Celeste know?”
“I don’t know.”
She knew something.
Enough to push me.
Enough to believe my daughter threatened her future.
Then Ethan said:
“Claire, there’s something you need to understand.”
“What?”
“My mother has changed that trust four times in nine months.”
My blood ran cold.
“What?”
“Every version benefits someone different.”
“Why?”
“I thought dementia.”
“And now?”
He looked toward the laboratory report.
“Now I think someone has been using her condition to create legal chaos.”
That made sense.
Conflicting wills.
Conflicting amendments.
Competency questions.
Exactly the kind of confusion someone could exploit after Evelyn died.
“Who wins from chaos?”
I asked.
Ethan did not answer.
He did not need to.
Lawyers.
Trustees.
People controlling temporary assets.
People like Graham Mercer.
My phone rang.
Ortiz.
“Claire.”
“Yes?”
“We searched your mother-in-law’s medication cabinet.”
“And?”
“Some bottles match the laboratory findings.”
I closed my eyes.
“Celeste’s fingerprints?”
“Several people’s.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes.”
Ortiz paused.
“We found a medication log.”
“What does it show?”
“Your mother-in-law’s doses were recorded by initials.”
“Whose?”
“C.V.”
Celeste Vale?
No.
Celeste Whitmore.
But before I could answer, Ortiz continued.
“There’s a problem.”
“What?”
“Those initials weren’t written by Celeste.”
“How do you know?”
“We compared handwriting samples.”
“Then who?”
“We don’t know.”
I looked at Ethan.
Ortiz lowered her voice.
“But we found the same handwriting somewhere else.”
May you like
“Where?”
“On the amended will.”
