Chapter Thirty-Eight
She wasn’t able to get into Eden’s room until a few days later.
During that time, Isla utilized her access to the estate and the people on it under the pretext of her profile of Victor Corrigan.
She’d gained more insight about who Eden had been pre-Daytona from the people who knew her.
Eden was loved, and no one, except maybe her stepmother, had anything negative to say about her, and it seemed like they missed her.
It was as good a time as any for Isla to be in Eden’s space from when she had been Edie.
Maybe that would give her a clue about what had forced her to leave.
It was for the greater good, Isla told herself.
With Holland now back at school, Isla felt free to do what she needed without guilt hanging over her head.
And gradually, the staff, Mae, and Lawrence were warming to her.
Even Myles treated her with less frost. She’d take it.
The lock on Eden’s bedroom door gave a soft click, and Isla slid the master key that she’d borrowed from Mae’s key ring back into her pocket. She hoped Mae wouldn’t realize it was missing, and even more, she hoped Mae wouldn’t be too upset with her for lifting it if she did.
Isla hesitated, feeling intrusive, but she pushed past her doubts.
This was the room no one entered. It had been frozen in time on Victor’s command, and no one dared—save Mae every so often to dust—to enter it.
Not even Victor. The door creaked open from being underused, revealing a room set thirteen years in the past.
There was even a lingering scent of lavender in the air from the last time the room had been dusted.
The decor was eclectic and simple, the room bathed in soft pastels that offset the array of bold theatrical posters that hung from her walls—the infamous Hamlet, A Streetcar Named Desire, The Phantom of the Opera, Rent, Grease, West Side Story, Chicago.
Isla bet Eden had seen them all on Broadway when they first came out.
She would have loved Hamilton and the latest versions of Wicked if she’d been around.
Also up were posters of the River Thames and the Globe Theatre, where many of Shakespeare’s plays had been performed.
Her furniture was expensive yet reflective of her character—understated elegance, light and dainty.
Stacks of playbills littered the top of her desk.
Eden’s room in Daytona had been fairly bare, minimalist, with one or two reprinted posters.
Nothing like what Isla was seeing now. It was Isla’s first true glimpse into Edie Corrigan, and she was awestruck.
There was even a half-burned candle on the dresser.
She sniffed it. Lavender. Maybe that was where the lingering scent had come from.
Isla moved quickly but cautiously, scanning the room for anything she thought would give her more information.
Where would a girl like Edie hide her most precious things?
Eden had never kept a journal or diary back home, but here maybe she had.
Isla checked under the bed, pushing herself all the way to the other end in case it was against the wall.
She slid her hands beneath the extra-fluffy pillows, checked in her desk drawers and between the few books there.
Nothing. It was surreal. Everything here reminded Isla of her friend and also taught Isla about her friend.
She wanted to sit in the middle of the floor and soak it up.
She could see why Victor kept the room locked.
It was too hard to look at on a daily basis. Isla rubbed her aching chest.
A narrow bookshelf caught her eye. Among the rows of classic novels and poetry collections topped with Hello Kitty stuffed characters and cute, furry bears was a small dusty stack of DVDs and VHS tapes.
Isla raised her brows, trying to think back a decade—had people still used VHS tapes back then?
DVDs, maybe. Now both were considered ancient, and if you admitted to knowing what they were, much less how to use them, you were deemed old, historical.
She pulled them out, examining the titles.
Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Casablanca, The Wiz, Fences, Othello, featuring Denzel Washington—a masterpiece, in Isla’s proud opinion—and The Merchant of Venice with Al Pacino.
One tape in particular stood out among the rest, its case misaligned. Mommie Dearest. Well now.
Isla let out a low chuckle at the irony, forgetting she was not supposed to be here and pulling the black, plastic, rectangular tape from its case.
If Edie was anything, it was the queen of subtle shade, and Isla suspected this movie was in honor of Edie’s very own live version of Joan Crawford’s horrible character.
As she pulled the tape free, a square piece of yellow paper fell out.
She knelt to pick it up, heart beating as she saw the embossed E in script at the top of the paper.
I’d never hurt Holl. How could he ever think that? But I’d rather leave since they want me gone so bad than let Dad look at me like I’m some monster. I already am one after how we left them. If I stay any longer, either I’ll become like him, or I won’t be at all.
Isla’s hands trembled as she read the neat but rushed handwriting again.
It was as if Edie had written this in a moment of desperation.
This was more than just a clue. This was a window into Eden’s state of mind before she’d left here.
This was the explanation for why she’d always seemed to be holding a piece of herself back when she was in Daytona.
Her words carried the weight of betrayal and the pain of being blamed for something she hadn’t done.
And what was it that Edie had supposedly done to make Victor look at her like she was a monster?
She was so deep in her thoughts that she didn’t hear the door creak as it widened or feel that the doorway was now filled with an imposing figure that cast an ominous shadow in the room.
“Why the hell are you in here? What do you think you’re doing?” Victor roared. He was so angry his eyes were reddened and his face was covered in a sheen of sweat.
Quickly she got to her feet, shoving the note and the DVD case behind her back, caught right in the act. She worked to put the video into its case and the note in her back pocket as she thought of an explanation that would wipe the complete anger off Victor’s face.
“I was . . .” Normally she was so quick, but words were failing her now.
“I was looking for stuff that might help me with the project. Edie was—is,” she corrected when he reacted, “such a significant person in your life that I thought being in here would give me better perspective.” She was blathering.
She’d never been so scared in her life. Not even when that rowdy gang of gambling thugs had chased her and Rey all the way down Alameda Street until they lost them.
“This room,” he began, his voice low and violent. He was still in the doorway, hadn’t stepped a foot inside. “Is off limits. No one comes in except Mae to clean. This is Edie’s private space, and she wouldn’t want some stranger in it.”
She was caught. She had made a misstep.
“I thought—”
“You thought wrong,” he growled. His eyes swept the room, looking for anything displaced, and landed on the shelf of videos she had disturbed.
Silently, slowly, she replaced Mommie Dearest where she had found it.
“You come out of there right now. Now, Isla, now!” He pointed at her.
He refused to step over the threshold, like some invisible barrier kept him from entering.
She realized it was because he couldn’t step in.
Stepping in meant giving in to an acceptance of something he did not believe.
He wouldn’t step in until Edie was there with him.
He motioned for her to come out, and Isla obliged.
Showing him that nothing else was disturbed.
Opening her palms to show there was nothing in them.
All she had was Mae’s master key. She neared him, and he moved back into the hall, as if he couldn’t get away from the room fast enough.
He was the most powerful man around, coming undone.
“Close it,” he thundered, his voice reverberating through the hall.
She looked at the crowd that had gathered, feeling shame and indignation washing over her in equal parts.
Yes, she’d broken into a private room, but it was to help the very daughter Victor clearly missed and had regrets about.
Only Isla couldn’t say that. She had to wallow in Brooke’s glee and Bennett’s jubilee.
She had to shoulder Mae’s disappointment and violation, because it was her Isla had stolen from.
Brooke smirked a crooked, satisfied smile.
She finally had something on Isla Thorne.
Bennett chuckled softly, shaking his head as if the guillotine was coming for her right now, and a smattering of staff gawked at her in disbelief at her audacity.
“What is going on?” Brooke said as she glided up to them and stopped beside her husband. She slipped a hand into the crook of his arm, and when he didn’t pull her off, she relished it, squeezing in a little tighter in solidarity against Isla.
Isla turned her back on them and saw Jackson hanging way back, watching with an unreadable expression. She reinserted the key and locked Edie’s door and braced herself for what would come next. It took all Isla’s courage to face them.
“Were you in there?” Brooke asked, eyes wide with genuine shock. She’d tried for days to make Isla the enemy, and Isla had handed the opportunity to her on a silver platter.
Isla didn’t answer, seeing another familiar face through the growing crowd of staff: Dixon.
Brooke continued to Victor, “Oh, darling, I know how much you cherish that room.”
From somewhere in the group, Jackson said, “Brooke, maybe we should head to the Foundation. Things seem taken care of here.” His face was beet red, and his blue eyes flashed with urgency. Meanwhile, Dixon did what Jackson didn’t: He began dispersing the crowd that had gathered.
Brooke ignored him. “Our Edie would never want someone like you touching her things.”
Isla balked at Brooke’s use of our, taking ownership of a girl she despised. Despised enough to kill? The question slipped into Isla’s thoughts like venom, and her anger blossomed. As if Brooke had ever considered Edie anything more than a thorn that had to be removed.
“‘Our Edie’?” Isla repeated in disbelief, not caring if she was about to expose herself. “Interesting you claim her as yours now that she’s been gone for years. Gone so long you’ve kept her out of your family portrait.”
“Excuse me?” Brooke asked incredulously.
The hall was icy, and any remaining staff had slunk away, sensing an explosion was about to occur.
“I found something interesting in Edie’s movie collection. She has a well-worn movie that she must have watched many, many times, about a horrid adoptive mother who abused and terrorized her innocent kids. Ever seen it? ‘No wire hangers’ and such.”
Brooke inhaled deeply, understanding Isla’s words even if no one else did. But if they thought hard enough, they’d understand Isla’s implication about what Edie thought of her stepmother.
Victor didn’t care. “I’ve given you pretty much full run of my home, property, and even offices should you choose.” His already sizable body seemed to grow even larger as he became angrier. “The one place that was off limits was that room, and you couldn’t respect that.”
It was the first Isla had heard him raise his voice, the first time he’d ever shown his true feelings. And these went beyond anger. There was the pain of a reopened wound, and Isla was the one who had opened it.
She dropped her head, regret replacing her anger toward Brooke. She was sorry for hurting him. She did not regret going in.
Brooke rebounded, attempting to ingratiate herself by pretending to plead Isla’s case.
“Honey, maybe she just wanted to understand Edie better. Maybe she’s heard so many great stories about her, and they’d be around the same age.
Maybe she was trying to emulate Edie for you since she knows how much you care for her. Isla was curious.”
“Curiosity killed the cat,” Bennett said, leaning casually against the wall with a leg propped up behind him. “You screwed up big this time. The old man doesn’t forgive easily and never forgets.”
Heat rose up Isla’s face and through her body.
“I would never try to be like your daughter,” she said defiantly, glaring at Brooke to back off.
“I’m sorry for upsetting you. I’ll understand if you’d like me to leave.
I can go pack my bags.” She walked to Mae and returned the master key.
“I’m sorry for taking this. I didn’t use it for anything else.
I won’t do it again.” She looked at Mae, searching for belief but finding disappointment instead.
Isla weaved through the onlookers as she heard Brooke say, loud and condescending, “I’m sure she meant well, honey. Don’t be too upset. People from where she comes from usually don’t know how to stay in their lane.”
Isla didn’t look back. She hooked her finger in her back pocket to ensure the note was securely tucked away. Her mind raced, not just about the contents of Eden’s letter but also about what the letter was referring to.