I pulled out my phone and called Benjamin.
“Benjamin, she was just here,” I said, pacing the length of the hallway. “She threatened me. But she said something strange. She implied Dad’s death wasn’t natural, and that he was hiding something.”
There was a heavy pause on the other end of the line. “Harper,” Benjamin said, his voice lowering to a serious, hushed register. “I was going to wait until tomorrow to tell you this, but my private investigator just got back to me regarding Eleanor’s past. The background check Arthur asked me to run before he died.”
“Before he died? Dad was investigating her?”
“Yes. And Harper… Arthur wasn’t her first husband. He was her third. Both of the previous men passed away under suddenly declining health conditions. Both left her substantial, untethered assets. Arthur was the first one to use a blind trust.”
I stopped pacing. The floorboards beneath my feet seemed to sway. “Are you telling me she killed them?”
“I’m telling you there is a pattern, and your father saw it,” Benjamin said carefully. “He asked me to secure the estate, but he told me he was handling the ‘Eleanor problem’ himself. He said he was leaving you a map. Have you found anything in the house?”
“No,” I whispered. “Nothing.”
“Look harder,” Benjamin instructed. “Arthur was a methodical man. If he knew he was in danger, he wouldn’t leave you unprotected.”
I hung up the phone. The house was settling around me, the wood groaning as the evening air cooled the exterior. I walked into my father’s study. It was exactly as he had left it. The walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. A massive globe stood in the corner. The brick fireplace, cold and swept clean, dominated the far wall.
A map.
I began to tear the room apart. I went through the desk drawers, shaking out old ledgers and empty envelopes. I pulled books off the shelves, checking behind them. Hours passed. The sun set, plunging the room into shadows until I finally switched on the brass desk lamp. Dust motes danced in the beam of light.
I sat on the Persian rug, exhausted, running my hands through my hair. I looked at the fireplace. My father used to sit in his leather armchair, staring into the flames for hours when he was thinking.
I crawled over to the hearth. I ran my fingers along the rough, soot-stained bricks. They felt solid, immovable. But as my hand brushed the lower right quadrant, just behind the decorative iron grating, one of the bricks shifted. It didn’t just slide; it depressed slightly, with a faint, mechanical click.
My breath hitched. I dug my fingernails into the mortar line and pulled. The brick slid out smoothly, revealing a dark, rectangular cavity in the masonry.
I reached inside. The air in the hole was cool. My fingers brushed against a thick, sealed envelope and a small, hard object made of metal and plastic.