6. Inventory
Chapter six
Inventory
Istood near the edge of the living room, peering through the gap in the window blinds.
Warren’s sleek sedan was gone, and Naomi’s SUV had not returned from her errands.
The gravel driveway sat vacant under the afternoon sun.
The documentary crew had wrapped their morning setups and cleared out of the house.
I released the plastic slats, letting them snap back against the glass.
“The driveway is empty,” I muttered, pressing a finger against the wireless earbud tucked into my left ear.
“Good,” Sebastian replied. The tinny static of the connection barely masked the calm authority in his voice. “Get into the office. Move systematically, and don’t rush the search.”
I turned away from the window and walked down the main hallway. The house carried a suffocating quiet, making it impossible to ignore the dull ache in my lower back as I shifted my weight. I stopped outside the ground-floor office.
I wrapped my hand around the brass knob and pushed the door inward.
The distinct, musky sting of Warren’s expensive aftershave hit my nose.
The scent clung to the leather chairs and the heavy bookshelves lining the walls.
Everything in this room projected masculine success, and every single item had been purchased with my inheritance.
“I’m leaving the door cracked just in case,” I whispered.
I positioned it, leaving a one-inch gap so a sliver of hallway light cut across the floor.
If the front door lock turned, I needed to hear it.
I stepped away from the door and approached the massive mahogany desk in the center of the room.
The piece was an antique, thick and imposing.
I settled into the leather chair behind it, the cushion hissing under my weight.
I reached for the top left drawer. The wood scraped against the tracks, stiff and resistant. I pulled it open, digging my fingers through the loose documents inside. I sifted through the mess, pushing aside manila folders and glossy paper.
“I’m in his desk now,” I said. “I see old scripts, some headshots, basic tax returns. Nothing that looks like a hidden bank account.”
“Keep looking,” Sebastian instructed. “People like him always keep a safety net. Check the backs of the drawers, feel underneath the wood for taped envelopes.”
I pushed the top drawer shut. I moved down the right side of the desk, pulling open the middle compartment.
It held a box of unused fountain pens and a stack of blank letterhead.
Nothing useful. I dropped my hand lower, gripping the brass pull of the bottom right drawer.
I yanked it open. The drawer slid out, revealing a sparse collection of charging cables and loose staples.
I reached inside, pressing my palm flat against the interior base.
My fingers traced the wooden edges.
I dragged my nails along the seams, testing the depth of the wood. The exterior of the desk promised a deep storage compartment, but the bottom board sat far too high.
“Hold on,” I whispered to Sebastian. “The wood base in this bottom drawer feels much shallower than the others.”
I wedged my thumbnail into the tiny gap between the wood panel and the side of the drawer.
The edge offered no give. I dug deeper, pressing until the nail bent backward.
A faint crack broke the silence as the false bottom popped loose.
I lifted the thin sheet of cedar and set it on the desk blotter.
A pristine black leather-bound journal lay nestled in the hidden cavity. No dust coated the cover. The spine looked rigid, uncreased by age or wear. I reached in and pulled it out. The heavy book rested on my lap, the smooth leather cool against my thumb.
I flipped open the first page. Blue ink stained the thick paper. The elegant, sweeping cursive was a flawless forgery of my own handwriting.
Warren had replicated the exact loop of my ‘J’, the slight downward slant of my trailing words. He didn’t just copy my signature; he captured the erratic spacing I used when drafting memos for the fashion firm. The physical proof of his plan sat right in my hands.
The pages slipped through my fingers, releasing the chemical scent of fresh ink.
The entries dated back a full month, painting my pregnancy as a rotting prison.
He wrote about me staring at the unfinished nursery walls.
He fabricated moments of me sobbing on the bathroom tile, begging for an escape.
The ink smudged under my damp fingertip as I traced a line near the center of the book.
He was inventing a depression I didn’t have.
Paragraphs detailed a relentless fatigue and a desire to just fade away.
I let the leather binding slip from my grip, dropping it onto the mahogany surface with a dull thud.
I leaned over it, bracing my forearms against the edge of the desk to steady my hands.
“Oh my god. Sebastian… it’s a journal.” My voice sounded foreign in the empty room. “It’s my handwriting, but I didn’t write this. He’s been forging diary entries.”
“Read it to me,” Sebastian said through the earbud. The usual calm in his tone vanished, replaced by a sharp edge. “What does it say?”
I forced my eyes back to the blue ink, staring down at the forged pages. He had written out exactly how I was going to die, setting himself up as the perfect grieving husband. Once the police found this sitting on my nightstand next to an empty bottle of pills, they would never look at him twice.
“It says I’m exhausted,” I whispered back to him, reading the final paragraph. “It says I can’t bear the thought of being a mother, that I just want to make the pain stop.”
I shut the book, resting my hand heavily on the leather cover.
“This is it. This is my suicide note.”
The loud crunch of rubber tires rolling across driveway gravel shattered the silence of the office.
I grabbed the forged journal and carefully lowered it into the hollow cavity of the bottom right drawer.
I snatched the thin cedar panel off the massive desk.
My hands shook, scraping the piece of wood against the metal tracks.
“Naomi is back. I have to go,” I whispered.
I didn’t wait for Sebastian’s response. My thumb fumbled against my phone screen, ending the active call. I reached up and frantically yanked the wireless bud from my ear. I stuffed both devices deep into the wool pocket of my cardigan.
The car engine died outside. The driver’s side door opened.
I shoved the panel down, misaligning the edge on the first try. I adjusted my grip, forced the corner into the groove, and smacked the flat of my palm against the wood.
The false bottom snapped flush. I slammed the heavy desk drawer shut.
My boots thudded against the hardwood floor as I rushed into the hallway.
I pulled the office door closed behind me, easing the latch into place without a sound, and hurried down the corridor, the extra weight of the pregnancy pulling at my lower back with every step.
I bypassed the front entryway and ducked into the open kitchen.
The bright overhead lights glared against the white marble island. I spotted a black spiral sketchpad sitting near a bowl of fruit. I grabbed it, snagged a stray pencil from the counter, and dragged a wooden barstool out. The legs screeched against the tile.
I dropped onto the seat and threw the notebook open to a random blank page, the wire spiral scraping against my palm.
Breathe. You are just sketching designs. You’ve been working here for the last hour.
I planted my elbows onto the freezing marble surface, letting the biting chill of the stone steady my trembling arms. I pushed my palms flat against the chilled counter, bracing my weight against the smooth surface.
The heavy deadbolt slid back with a loud click.
The thick front door swung inward, and Naomi pushed through the threshold, juggling three glossy paper shopping bags.
A gust of winter wind rushed into the house, stinging my cheeks.
She kicked the door shut with her boot and dropped her ring of keys onto the entryway table. The metal clanged against the wood.
“It is freezing out there,” Naomi said, rubbing her bare hands together. “The wind is picking up.”
I looked up from the messy sketchpad. I forced a casual smile, mimicking the domestic routine we played out a dozen times a week.
“You should have worn your thicker scarf,” I said.
Naomi unbuttoned her wool coat. A lingering draft of outdoor air trailed her into the heated kitchen as she walked toward the marble island.
The stiff, glossy paper of her shopping bags crinkled with every step.
The noise cut sharply through the quiet room.
She set the bags on the counter near my elbow and peered down at the notebook.
“Hey, look at you working away!” Naomi said.
She reached into the nearest tote, pulling aside a layer of pink tissue paper. Her eyes sparkled with the practiced warmth she saved for the cameras. She was laying claim to a future she had already priced out in Warren’s office.
“I just picked up the most adorable onesies from the boutique downtown,” she continued. “Let’s take them up to the nursery, I want to show you.”
She planned to butcher me and raise my child in these very clothes. My grip on the yellow pencil faltered. I let it drop onto the open sketchpad, pulling my hand away before she could notice my fingers shaking.
“Oh, let me see,” I said, keeping my voice bright. “My brain is fried from looking at these sketches anyway. A distraction sounds perfect.”