Chapter 15
I squeezed an honest day’s work into the morning before enjoying lunch with Edna as usual.
She would be leaving early, sometime between one and two as she always did on Friday—and that was when I planned to explore.
I never ran into Greg in the middle of the day and had yet to meet his wife, so I wasn’t worried about being caught by them.
Still, I knew there was a first time for everything, so I’d have to be smart about it anyway.
On Fridays, Sinclair sometimes came home as early as four o’clock, and that would give me a window of a couple of hours to explore freely.
So, plan in place, I worked downstairs until Edna popped her head in at the top of the stairs.
“I’m off, dear. I’ll see you bright and early Monday.”
Peeking my head in the stairway, I looked up at her.
No matter how hard she worked, she always had a tired smile on her face, and today was no different.
And, despite our age difference, I had grown to consider her a friend.
But I was no dummy—I knew her loyalties and love still lay with Sinclair.
Now, I understood that it was more to her than employer/ employee—she felt like a mother to him.
I realized it wasn’t unlike my relationship with him—it, too, had moved beyond simple boss/ worker.
Maybe it was that way with Greg too.
It was possible that they were friends and hung out together once in a while…
although I doubted it.
Sinclair didn’t talk about him much.
But it was possible.
I knew that simply by looking at how blurred the lines of his relationships with Edna and me were.
Was that because he was searching for family?
Real family? Not just blood…
but heart?
I hoped I could find answers in the east wing—not just for me but for him.
He’d never said it out loud, but I could feel an emptiness in him, like he was searching for something that would fill it, something that belonged there.
Part of me yearned to be that something—but in the back of my mind, I suspected I was just a plaything, and he’d grow tired of me at some point.
But maybe if I could help him mend whatever inside him was broken…
perhaps we could avoid the inevitable.
“See you then. Have a good weekend, Edna.”
“You too.”
And the door closed as she walked off.
I didn’t want to go up right away—because what if she forgot something she had to backtrack for?
What if she hadn’t yet checked the doors like she always did when she left?
What if she bothered telling Greg goodbye?
I wasn’t going to take a chance.
So I spent a good fifteen minutes researching the potential value of two antique lamps before I powered down the laptop.
Ugh. That stupid laptop.
Even though I’d been able to change the screensaver and background, the other woman had etched her initials with Sinclair’s into the bottom.
I hadn’t noticed it at first, mainly because it was so tiny.
Nowadays, I took the laptop to my room every night with the intention of checking the status of my application to DU but I always wound up in Sinclair’s bed.
One morning when I’d fetched it, I noticed the etching on the back, just below the battery slot: NS + SW =4ever .
Although it seemed as if Sinclair had tried to erase her existence from the mansion, there was no denying that she’d had a presence here sometime in the past, from the laptop to the hairclip he’d used to pull back my locks the first night we’d spent together.
But it wasn’t evidence of her I wanted to find.
I suspected that, if I’d asked, Sinclair would more willingly talk about her than his own family.
Finally, I crept up the stairs to the main floor, breathing in the fresh air cooling the long hallway.
It was silent, although when I strained, I could hear the air moving from the vents.
Still, it was so quiet, I couldn’t even hear the sounds of summer outside.
Here, near the heart of the mansion, it was easy to believe this was the world, that there was nothing outside these walls.
But I wasn’t about to stay put.
I made my way into the kitchen.
As always, the lights overhead popped on with my motion across the space.
Not all the rooms had motion sensors but this one did, and I’d grown used to it.
After walking past the island, I turned toward the pantry door, hoping that key was still hanging on a hook.
Of course, it was. I didn’t know how often Edna used it.
I didn’t even know if Sinclair still locked his bedroom door when he left for the day—but, if I wasn’t mistaken, that key was a master key that would open up most if not all doors in the mansion.
If I was wrong, I’d explore in Sinclair’s office again.
If I couldn’t get to the key ring, I’d look up how to unlock doors without a key.
The movies and television made it look so easy, but I doubted it was.
Still, I would resort to that tactic if I had to.
When the lights in the pantry came on as I opened the door, I looked over at the post where I thought I’d seen the key before—but it wasn’t there.
I got closer, realizing there wasn’t even a hook on it—so I looked at the next post and there it was: a big black key with the letters MSTR etched in it near the top.
From here, I couldn’t read it but when I got close enough to pull it off the hook, it was easy to see the letters.
I prayed I was right—but there was only one way to find out.
As I crept through the main hallway again, I noticed that the sound of my footsteps was imperceptible.
It dawned on me that that must have been why the shoes I wore were called sneakers , because they made it easy to sneak around undetected.
And even though I had no chance of getting caught, I found it comforting that I wouldn’t be making a lot of noise.
Even walking up the marble staircase, my steps sounded as soft as a feather stroking a baby’s cheek.
My heart was beating harder now that I was again on the second floor of the east wing.
All the memories of being here before—and getting caught—rushed back to me, but I only had to will myself to relax.
This plan was foolproof.
Before moving to rooms I hadn’t seen, I wanted to check the key first. If it didn’t work, I’d have to return it and find the big ring.
So I picked the first door, the one that used to belong to Sinclair’s oldest brother, and held the key up to the lock.
It slid in without a hitch.
But fitting didn’t mean it would work, so I turned it and felt satisfaction when I heard a click.
To confirm, I turned the doorknob.
It worked.
Locking the door again, I walked down the hall, this time paying attention to the layout—and, as I made my way east, I confirmed what I’d suspected, that this wing was the mirror image of the west.
Only it wasn’t—and I again confirmed it when I got to the end of the hall.
A room was missing, the one that should have been to the north just before the big door to the master bedroom.
Now I was more curious than ever.
More than any other room on this side, I wanted to see inside the master bedroom.
I’d already formed an image in my head based on the journals and even Sinclair’s room, but I wanted to see what it really looked like.
Of course, I realized as I held the key up to the doorknob that the room may have been remodeled since the passing of Sinclair’s mother.
Based on how the elder Whittier seemed to feel about his wife, it wouldn’t have surprised me a bit.
Still, I was compelled to go inside that room, almost as if I would be able to channel her spirit.
But there was another reason, I realized as I turned the key in the lock.
There was the gigantic question of why .
Why did Sinclair forbid it?
What up here was so awful that he had to pretend it didn’t exist?
That was why I couldn’t resist.
Turning the knob, I slowly pushed open the door as if I expected a ghost to greet me at the door—but there was no such thing.
As I stepped into the room, I noticed that the air felt stuffy and stale—and the room was bathed in shadows.
All the drapes were closed, making this room like a coffin buried deep in the earth.
When I’d peeked in the other rooms a few weeks earlier, they hadn’t seemed like this at all, making me wonder if the air ducts to this room weren’t working.
Instead of turning on the light, I crossed the room, throwing open the drapes in front of the first window I reached—and I did it in several places until the space was bathed in light.
Dust danced in the air in front of me, no doubt sent flying by my swift motions to pull apart the drapes.
Then I checked out the window I was closest to, figuring out how to get it open.
Then I opened another across the room.
Ah. Fresh air.
Although it wasn’t cool at all, there was an undeniable quality of outdoors coming inside, taking with it the dead air that felt like it had been trapped in here for years…
possibly decades. Because I had no idea when this particular section of the mansion had become forbidden, I couldn’t know how long the air in this room had aged, turning sour and bitter from neglect.
Taking in the space, I saw immediately that it was bigger than Sinclair’s bedroom—which was rather large for what it was.
I realized fairly quickly that the missing room on this wing had become more space for this bedroom.
In addition to two large dressers, there was a desk, a large low table with a mirror and a lovely stool—likely a makeup table, and a sofa with a coffee table.
The king-sized bed had a canopy and two large nightstands on either side.
There was also a beautiful stone fireplace that practically dominated the room.
On the other side of the room were three doors.
The one against the outer wall was a large bathroom, slightly bigger than Sinclair’s.
The other two doors led to walk-in closets.
One of them was empty.
The other was full of women’s clothing.
Or, rather, a woman’s.
I had no doubt in my mind that these items belonged to Sinclair’s mother.
Had the elder Mr. Whittier simply closed the closet door, planning to never look inside again?
I was certain at some point Edna had said Sinclair’s father didn’t like living here after his wife had died.
Maybe he had loved her—but had a horrible way of showing it.
Now that I’d flipped on the light switch, I stepped inside.
I touched a few of the beautiful dresses hanging on one side and walked around the space, wondering why I felt a little disappointed.
Had I really expected to feel her presence here?
Still, it was fascinating that no one had done anything with her belongings.
Was that why Sinclair had closed off this section of the mansion?
But that didn’t make sense.
He really hadn’t known his mother.
Surely, he wasn’t grieving her loss.
But that didn’t mean he didn’t feel her absence in his life.
I realized I’d been sitting on the bench in the middle of the space, and I didn’t know how long I’d been there, musing about all the questions I’d probably never have answers to.
So I stood, deciding to methodically look inside every drawer, every nook and cranny.
What I was looking for, I didn’t know, but I suspected I’d never have this opportunity again.
First, I looked in all the shoe and hat boxes stacked on the upper shelf, using the folding stool I found tucked behind some of the dresses.
Then I looked in all the drawers.
Although I found plenty of items, including what I thought was inexpensive jewelry, I didn’t find anything that would help me solve any mysteries.
When I stepped out of the closet, I shut off the light and closed the door and immediately my body filled with panic.
I’d left the main door to the bedroom open .
I knew why I had: it had been so stuffy and dark in the room, my instinct had been to get the windows open quickly.
But I knew that anyone walking through the main hall or antechamber downstairs would notice the shaft of light shining through this hallway—because the second floor of the east wing was always dark.
Quickly, I peeked out the door, my heart thudding in my chest—and, when I was certain the mansion was still empty, I closed the door.
Leaning against its back, I almost started laughing at how hard my heart continued beating, almost as if I’d just sprinted down the block.
I moved over to the bed, peeking first underneath it.
There were several dust bunnies on the shiny wooden floor but nothing else.
The first nightstand was empty, save for a pair of glasses in a soft pouch and a book called The Intelligent Investor .
The other side was not empty.
Instead, it was filled with the kinds of things I might put in a drawer beside the bed: a small sewing kit; several facial tissues folded neatly; several books; a dish holding coins, bobby pins, rubber bands, and hair clips; pens and pencils; dental floss, and a silver ring with opals shaped to resemble a tiny butterfly’s wings.
There was also a small bottle of lotion, a jar of body butter, and a tube of lip balm that should have been thrown away ages ago.
Although there were a lot of items, they were neatly arranged, just as everything in the closet had been.
But I realized…these were the things his mother used.
In fact, they probably still had her DNA all over them.
Suddenly, I felt like I was in an Egyptian pyramid, finding all of the pharaoh’s belongings, placed inside his tomb so they would be available to him in the afterlife.
Only, just like those ancient rulers, Sinclair’s mother didn’t need these items there and so they remained, almost like haunted remnants of a past life.
Shaking off my macabre thoughts, I crossed to the short table sitting between two windows.
I sat on the stool to look in the drawers.
These were crammed full of things—and, although they were feminine and undoubtedly belonged to the same woman everything else here did—these items weren’t arranged with the care that I’d seen everywhere else.
The bottom drawers, yes, but the two top drawers were stuffed, as if someone had swept everything on the table into them—perfumes, makeup, and skin care products piled on top of hair accessories.
Rifling through the mess, I didn’t see anything that merited more of my attention.
But it was sad how it felt like someone hadn’t wanted to see her presence here—because, after having spent some time there, I was able to feel her…
through her things, through what she’d left behind.
Standing, I pushed the stool back underneath the low table and turned to the dressers opposite.
Just as I’d suspected, one was empty while the other was not.
Like with the table, the top drawer was overfull.
On the top layer were several jewelry boxes and picture frames while underneath were panties, slips, hosiery, socks, and a couple of pairs of gloves and scarves.
Oddly enough, though, the jewelry boxes were mostly empty.
The picture frames were not.
They weren’t big pictures, but they were sweet—and, even though I’d never met any of these people, I knew exactly who they were.
The first photo was formal.
It was Sinclair’s mother and father with his two older brothers—but his brothers were both young.
The oldest was grinning from ear to ear, his eyes closed in joy, his wide grin exposing the gap where his top two front teeth should have been.
The younger boy didn’t seem happy to be there but he still sat on his mother’s lap and looked forward stoically as if enduring torture.
I focused on the woman, Constance Whittier.
Her smile seemed genuine as it reached her eyes.
They shone like emeralds in her face and her happiness radiated from her cheeks, her lips.
As if I could read her mind in that moment, I knew she was satisfied with her lot in life—she had a man she adored and two healthy, beautiful sons she’d given birth to.
Even Augustus Sinclair, their father, seemed to be content.
Despite everything I’d read in her journals, I knew from this piece of evidence that they’d been happy once.
This picture was definitely worth a thousand words.
I knew the child sitting on Constance’s lap, the one who didn’t seem to be happy in the moment, was Warren and the older son sitting between the two adults was Sinclair’s oldest brother, the one Constance affectionately called Augie .
What had happened to ruin this picture of bliss?
There were three other photos: two I was certain were school portraits, one of Warren and the other of Augie, taken a few years later.
The last was a baby picture, one of a newborn child, not in a frame at all.
In fact, it had been on the very bottom of the drawer underneath everything else.
It was of a baby boy with sapphire blue eyes, a peaceful expression—and a large bruise.
It was a U shape. Above his lip was a cut, much more noticeable than now, because it was red and angry looking, an actual gash in the flesh.
The line went down to his chin where it curved and moved upward again onto his cheek.
Sinclair had said that the doctor had had to use forceps to get him out—and, even though I’d never seen forceps, I now had an idea of what they looked like, based on the impression that they’d left on this baby.
He was probably lucky the only permanent damage was the scar above his lip…
one that actually made him look unique, distinguished—and even sexy.
And he likely knew that; otherwise, he would have likely grown thick facial hair.
I felt a shiver as I realized…
Constance had managed to keep this one newborn photo from her husband.
Had he destroyed all the photos before or after she’d died?
Either way, she’d managed to preserve one for history.
Again, I’d been staring too long at the pictures, but I couldn’t help wanting to take them all in, especially Sinclair as a newborn.
As I glanced a final time at the family portrait, resting them back in the drawer, I could see the family resemblance and suspected I would be able to recognize his brothers today.
After closing the top drawer, I began to again methodically look through the others.
The second drawer was full of bras and camisoles and even swimming suits.
The next drawer held jeans, t-shirts, and shorts, and the lowest drawer was full of nightclothes, from lingerie to simple nightgowns and pjs.
But, as I began to slide it closed, I realized I hadn’t been searching through everything.
If I hadn’t combed through the top one, I never would have found Sinclair’s newborn photo.
So I lifted up the clothing in that last drawer, not wanting to disturb its neat arrangement.
There was nothing there.
Same with the second-to-bottom drawer.
Underneath the jeans and t-shirts was nothing more than the bottom of the smooth drawer.
The next one, however, the second from the top, the one filled with bras and such—in there I found something.
Another journal.
My eyes grew wide as I realized it was this that I was searching for.
I opened it to be sure—and, based on the handwriting I’d grown so familiar with and the date of the first entry, I knew this was probably the last journal she’d ever written.
Wanting to confirm, I rifled through the pages to the back of the nondescript gray book, discovering only about one-third of the pages had been written on.
What would I find in here?
Would I discover who Sinclair’s real father was?
Would I find out why his mother had killed herself—if, indeed, she had?
More importantly…should I read this journal here or elsewhere?
I knew I was pushing my luck up here.
And having spent at least half an hour exploring this room, I had no doubt it hadn’t been opened in years—meaning no one would miss this journal.
I started to close the windows, realizing I hadn’t looked through the bathroom yet.
So I searched as thoroughly as I could while a clock ticked in the back of my mind.
When I was certain I’d already found the most important item in these rooms, I shut and locked the two windows I’d opened, pulling the drapes back into place.
It was still quite sunny and bright outside—and hot—but it wasn’t until I closed the windows that I realized I’d been sweating.
Even with the windows open, the air had been oppressive and it had only been because I’d been eager to find some history here that I’d been able to ignore my discomfort.
Now, though, as I sealed this room in its former state, I almost felt as if I couldn’t breathe.
I felt silly when I closed the curtains, feeling as if I were burying a family pet that had died all too soon.
Chiding myself, I crossed to the door and closed it.
After locking it, I debated if I wanted to look in the other room I hadn’t yet seen, deciding against it.
Something inside told me I needed to get moving.
Walking down the dark hall toward the light streaming into the antechamber and main hallway, I listened for any sounds that might tell me what had been happening out here since I’d disappeared into the forbidden section of the east wing.
But there was nothing other than the usual sounds of silence.
When I strained, I could hear air moving from somewhere above.
No people sounds, however.
So I looked around, both up and down, and made my way toward the stairs.
Before stepping on them, I tucked the journal in the front of my jeans and draped my shirt over, just in case I ran into someone as I headed back downstairs.
Fortunately, the key was already hidden from sight inside my right pants pocket.
Soon I was at the bottom of the stairs, and I began walking down the main hallway toward the kitchen.
Almost free.
It was only then that I heard a man’s throat clearing…
behind me.
I’d been caught again.