Chapter 2 - Where the Roots Hold the Wall
Evelyn waited until Cole’s car disappeared through the gates before turning on Wren.
“What exactly did your father say?”
Wren wiped her face.
“I told you.”
“Every word.”
“I don’t remember every word.”
“Try.”
Helen remained beside the dining table.
The unsigned loan documents and copies of Nathan’s supposed guarantees lay between them.
Wren stared at the floor.
“He sat on my bed.”
“When?”
“The night before he died.”
Nathan had died on a Thursday morning.
Evelyn remembered Wednesday night differently.
Nathan had arrived home after ten, pale and irritable. He said he had indigestion and went to his study.
Evelyn had been angry.
They had barely spoken for three days.
She had accused him of putting the company before his family again.
Now shame burned through her.
“What did he say?” she asked.
Wren swallowed.
“He said, ‘Birdie, if grown-ups start arguing after I’m gone, remember where the roots hold the wall.’”
Birdie.
Nathan’s name for Wren.
Evelyn gripped the back of a chair.
“Did he say he thought he was going to die?”
“No.”
“Then why would he say after I’m gone?”
Wren became frustrated.
“I don’t know!”
Helen touched Evelyn’s arm.
“Don’t push her.”
“I need facts.”
“She’s nine.”
“And somebody just told me my dead husband may have left her instructions about what to do if he died.”
Wren flinched.
Evelyn immediately regretted her tone.
She crouched.
“I’m sorry.”
Wren looked away.
“Did he give you the key?”
“Yes.”
“That night?”
Wren nodded.
“He said not to show anyone unless I knew they were on my side.”
Evelyn felt the words like a blade.
“And you didn’t know if I was?”
Wren’s silence answered.
Evelyn sat back on her heels.
Helen turned toward the windows.
Outside, Nathan’s sprawling three-acre property disappeared into old oaks, flower beds, and stone retaining walls.
“Roots hold the wall,” Helen murmured.
“There are dozens of walls,” Evelyn said.
“Not to Nathan.”
Helen faced them.
“When he was a boy, Nathan used to help his father build the north garden terrace. There’s an old oak growing through the retaining wall.”
Wren looked up.
“Dad took me there.”
Evelyn stood.
“We’re going.”
Helen caught her wrist.
“Not yet.”
“Why?”
“Because Cole knows about the key.”
Evelyn glanced toward the driveway.
“He doesn’t know what it opens.”
“Are you sure?”
No.
She wasn’t.
That night Evelyn locked the doors twice.
At eleven thirty she checked Wren’s room.
Empty.
Panic ripped through her.
“Wren?”
She ran downstairs.
The back door stood open.
Rain drifted through the gap.
Evelyn rushed outside barefoot.
She found her daughter thirty yards away near the north garden, kneeling beside the retaining wall with a flashlight.
“What are you doing?”
Wren jumped.
Evelyn grabbed her shoulders.
“You cannot leave the house like this!”
“I wanted to find it before he did.”
“Cole isn’t here.”
Wren pointed.
Fresh mud marked the stone path.
A boot print.
Large.
Deep heel.
Evelyn stopped breathing.
It had rained for less than an hour.
Someone had been there recently.
She looked toward the oak.
The flashlight beam caught disturbed leaves beneath its roots.
Evelyn stepped forward.
Then headlights appeared beyond the trees.
A car was moving slowly along the private service road bordering the property.
Its lights switched off.
Wren whispered, “Mom.”
Evelyn pulled her close.
“Inside.”
“But—”
“Now.”
They ran.
Evelyn locked the door and called security.
The Mercer property had cameras at the front gate and driveway but not behind the old north gardens.
The security company reported no entry through the main gate.
“Could somebody come through the service road?” Evelyn asked.
“Yes, ma’am. There’s an old maintenance access beyond your north boundary.”
Nathan had talked about putting a camera there.
He never did.
At one in the morning, after Wren finally slept, Evelyn returned to Nathan’s office.
She sat behind his desk.
For seven weeks she had been unable to open the bottom drawer.
That was where Nathan kept personal things.
His wedding cuff links.
Wren’s first ultrasound photograph.
Letters from Helen.
Evelyn unlocked it.
Inside was an old leather garden journal.
Its cover was stained from years of use.
She opened it.
Planting notes.
Measurements.
Sketches of drainage channels.
Then, halfway through, she found a page Nathan had cut out.
Only the torn edge remained.
Something had been written on the page beneath.
Evelyn tilted it toward the lamp.
Pressure marks.
She took a pencil and lightly shaded across the sheet.
Words appeared.
C.B.
BRACKEN RIDGE.
2.4M.
ASK WHY.
Then another line.
CHECK THE REFILLS.
Evelyn’s stomach tightened.
Behind her, a floorboard creaked.
She spun around.
Helen stood in the doorway.
And in her hand was Nathan’s old medication bottle.
“Evelyn,” she said.
May you like
Her face was white.
“I think we need to talk about how my son died.”
