Chapter 7: The Last Piece
Emily stared at the message for a long moment on the pavement outside the coffee shop.
Thomas read it over her shoulder.
"Don't go," he said immediately.
"I'm not going anywhere tonight." Emily put the phone in her pocket.
"But I'm not ignoring it either."
She forwarded the message to Gerald Marsh with a single line: *Keep this.*
She did not sleep well.
She lay in the hotel room with her mother's letter on the pillow beside her and read it three more times, looking for the thing she had missed.
There was a line near the end she had not read aloud in the ballroom.
She had stopped before it.
*I don't know who else was involved.
I only know it goes further than Victoria.
There is someone I haven't been able to name yet.
Someone who was in the house the night your grandmother signed the first transfer.
I think they were the one who made her sign it.
I think they are still close to this family.
Be careful, my darling.
Be very careful who you trust.*
Emily folded the letter at seven in the morning and called Gerald.
"The letter mentions someone else," she said.
"Someone who was present the night the first transfer was signed.
Someone still close to the family."
Gerald was quiet for a moment.
"Do you have any idea who?"
"No.
But I think the anonymous message last night might."
"Emily—"
"I know.
I'm not meeting anyone alone." She looked out the hotel window at the grey morning.
"Can you get me the guest list for last night's party?
The full list, with contact details."
"I can try.
Why?"
"Because whoever sent that message was in that ballroom.
They saw what happened.
They waited until I left to reach out." She paused.
"That means they were afraid to say it in front of Victoria and Richard.
Which means they're not on their side.
Not entirely."
Gerald was quiet again.
Then: "I'll get the list."
Margaret Osei lived in a white clapboard house on Crestfall Road with a vegetable garden in the front and a dog that barked twice and then went quiet when Emily knocked.
She was in her seventies.
She opened the door and looked at Emily for a long moment before she said anything.
"I wondered when someone would come," she said.
She made tea without being asked.
Thomas waited in the car.
"I saw the car," Margaret said, setting two mugs on the kitchen table.
"It was a dark blue sedan.
It was parked on the shoulder with its lights off.
When your mother's car went past, it pulled out.
It didn't follow her — it just pulled out and went the other direction." She wrapped her hands around her mug.
"But it had been there for at least an hour before she came by.
I noticed it when I was walking the dog.
I thought it was strange."
"Did you see the driver?"
"No.
The windows were dark." She looked at Emily steadily.
"I told the investigator.
He thanked me and said he would be in touch.
He never called back."
"Did anyone else contact you?
After the investigation closed?"
Margaret hesitated.
"A man came to the house," she said.
"About two weeks after.
He was polite.
He said he was from the insurance company, following up.
He asked me what I had seen." She paused.
"He also told me, very gently, that I had a reputation in the area for being — his word was imaginative.
He said the report was closed and that reopening it would be difficult for everyone involved, including me." She looked at her tea.
"I was sixty-two years old.
I lived alone.
I didn't know what to do with that."
Emily's jaw tightened.
"Do you remember what he looked like?"
Margaret got up and went to a kitchen drawer.
She came back with a business card, old and slightly soft at the corners.
She set it on the table.
Emily picked it up.
The name on the card was not Richard Hartwell.
It was not anyone from Clearpath Consulting.
The name on the card was James Whitmore.
Director of Family Affairs.
Hartwell Estate Management.
Emily turned the card over.
A personal mobile number was written on the back in neat, small handwriting.
"Who is James Whitmore?" she said.
Margaret looked at her carefully.
"You don't know him?"
"No."
"He introduced himself as a family representative." Margaret paused.
"He was at your mother's funeral.
He stood in the back.
I remember because I thought it was strange — he didn't speak to anyone.
He just watched."
Emily set the card down on the table.
Her mother's letter.
*Someone who was in the house the night your grandmother signed the first transfer.
Someone still close to this family.*
She picked up her phone and called Gerald.
"I need you to find out everything you can about a man named James Whitmore," she said.
"He worked for Hartwell Estate Management.
He may still."
Gerald's pause was a fraction too long.
"Emily," he said.
"James Whitmore is on the guest list from last night."
The kitchen was very quiet.
"Was he there when I read the letter?"
"According to the list, yes."
Emily looked at the business card on Margaret's kitchen table.
Her phone buzzed in her hand.
The same unknown number from the night before.
*I'm not your enemy.
I'm the one who told your mother what to look for.
Meet me.
May you like
Please.
Before Whitmore finds out you have his card.*
