Chapter 4: The Message From a Dead Woman's Past
I read the message three times before I trusted myself to breathe.
*Maya, don't trust your grandfather's version of the education fund.*
*Your mother left something behind, and Vanessa knows where it is.*
The words glowed against my phone screen as Grandpa's black Mercedes rolled away from the mansion. Outside the window, Atlanta's summer sunlight spilled across the pavement, bright and indifferent to the fact that my family had just cracked open in front of me.
Grandpa glanced at me from the driver's seat.
“Everything all right, sweetheart?””
I locked my phone.
“Yeah.””
He didn't believe me. I could tell by the way his eyes returned to my face at the next red light.
But I wasn't ready to show him the message.
Not yet.
“Was that your cousin?”” he asked.
“No.””
“Someone from school?””
I looked down at my phone again.
“I don't know who it was.””
Grandpa eased the car forward when the light turned green.
“Then don't respond until we know.””
I turned toward him sharply.
“How did you know it was a strange message?””
“I didn't. But I know what happens when people make decisions while they're frightened.””
He said it gently, without accusing me of anything.
That made it worse.
Because the person who had sent the message might have been trying to protect me. Or they might have been trying to make me distrust the only person who had stood beside me that afternoon.
Either way, I couldn't ignore it.
“Grandpa?””
“Yes?””
“Did Mom leave anything for me besides the education fund?””
His hands tightened slightly around the steering wheel.
“What makes you ask?””
I hesitated.
“Before she died, did she ever give you something to keep for me?””
He was silent long enough for the tires to hum over the road.
“Your mother gave me several things over the years,” he finally said.
“Photographs. Letters. A few pieces of jewelry. Why?””
“I'm just wondering.””
He glanced at me again.
“Maya, if someone has told you something about your mother, I want you to show me. Whatever it is, we can deal with it together.””
I wanted to believe him.
I really did.
But the message had placed a splinter of doubt beneath my skin, and every reassuring word seemed to push it deeper.
I slid the phone into my purse.
“I'm tired,” I said.
Grandpa nodded.
“All right. We'll get you something to eat, and then you can rest.””
He didn't ask another question.
That evening, at his house in Buckhead, I sat at the kitchen island wearing an old T-shirt and leggings while Grandpa reheated chicken soup. His home was quieter than my father's mansion. There were no sequined dresses draped over chairs, no expensive candles burning in every room, no carefully positioned photographs designed to make visitors believe that everyone inside was happy.
There were books everywhere.
My mother's favorite novels still lined the shelves in the upstairs study.
When I was little, Grandpa used to let me sit on the kitchen counter while he made pancakes. Mom would stand beside us, stealing chocolate chips from the bowl and pretending she hadn't.
For a moment, I could almost hear her laugh.
Then my phone vibrated again.
The same unknown number.
*Check the blue music box your mother kept in her closet. Vanessa never threw it away.*
My spoon slipped from my hand and struck the bowl.
Grandpa turned from the stove.
“What happened?””
I stared at the screen.
The blue music box.
I remembered it immediately.
It had been a small wooden box painted pale blue, with a silver butterfly on its lid. When I was younger, Mom kept it on the top shelf of her bedroom closet. Sometimes, when she thought I was asleep, I heard the delicate melody playing through the wall.
After she died, Vanessa moved into the bedroom and redecorated almost everything.
I hadn't seen the box in years.
“Grandpa,” I said slowly, “do you remember Mom's blue music box?””
He set down the spoon.
“Of course.””
“Do you know where it is?””
His face changed.
Not much.
But enough.
“I thought it was packed with her personal belongings.””
“Where?””
“I couldn't tell you without checking.””
I watched him carefully.
“Did you ever open it?””
“No, sweetheart. Why?””
I placed my phone on the island.
He read both messages without speaking.
When he finished, he pulled out the chair beside me and sat down.
“This number isn't saved in your contacts?””
“No.””
“Have you answered?””
“No.””
“Good. Don't delete the messages. We'll preserve them.””
He studied the second one again.
“Someone knows about the music box,” I whispered.
“Someone knows Vanessa kept it.””
“Or someone wants us to believe they know.””
“Do you think it's a trap?””
“I think we should find out who sent the messages before we trust anything they say.””
I looked at him.
“And if the messages are true?””
“Then we'll face whatever they reveal.””
He reached across the island and covered my hand with his.
“But you won't face it alone.””
The next morning, Grandpa called Denise.
By ten o'clock, she was sitting in his study with a legal pad, a laptop, and a stack of documents. She had removed her jacket and rolled her sleeves to her elbows, revealing a simple silver watch.
She looked tired but focused.
“I spoke with the bank's trust department,” Denise said.
“They've acknowledged our request for the original transfer records. They're reviewing the transaction and the authorization attached to it.””
“And the beneficiary changes?”” Grandpa asked.
“Your existing estate documents are being reviewed separately. Any changes will need to be properly executed. Nothing has been changed yet.””
Grandpa nodded.
“What about the music box?””
Denise looked at me.
“If the box belongs to Maya or contains her mother's personal papers, we should arrange to retrieve it lawfully. We shouldn't enter Marcus's house without permission.””
“I can ask Dad,” I said.
Denise studied my face.
“Do you feel safe speaking with him?””
I thought about the diploma in the grass. The finger pointed at the gate. The way Vanessa's hand had closed around my gown.
“I don't know.””
“Then we don't need to rush,” she replied.
Grandpa leaned back in his chair.
“I can call Marcus and request that the box be returned.””
I shook my head.
“No. I want to see what happens when I ask him myself.””
Both adults looked at me.
For eighteen years, people had made decisions around me, often claiming they were protecting me. My father had told me what I could feel. Vanessa had told me what I deserved. Even Grandpa had decided, without asking me, how much of the family conflict I could handle.
I was tired of being the last person to know what was happening in my own life.
“I don't want to fight with Dad,” I said.
“But if Mom left something for me, I want to know what it is.””
Grandpa considered that.
“All right. But Denise will accompany us, and we will leave if the situation becomes hostile.””
I nodded.
We arrived at my father's house shortly after noon.
The graduation decorations were still scattered around the garden, but the caterers were gone. A few wilted flowers leaned against the pool fence. The lawn had been mowed, erasing the patch of grass where Vanessa had thrown my diploma.
The house looked as immaculate as ever.
From the outside, no one would have guessed that anything had happened.
My father opened the front door.
He looked as though he hadn't slept.
His shirt was wrinkled, his face unshaven, and his usual polished confidence had been replaced by a restless tension.
“Maya,” he said.
Then he noticed Grandpa and Denise.
“Why are they here?””
“I need Mom's blue music box.””
His expression changed immediately.
“What?””
“The blue box from her closet. I want it back.””
Dad looked over his shoulder toward the staircase.
“Why now?””
“Because someone told me Mom left something inside it.””
“Who told you that?””
“I don't know.””
He stared at me.
“Then why are you listening to a stranger?””
“Because I don't know who else has been telling me the truth.””
The words escaped before I could soften them.
My father flinched.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then Vanessa appeared at the top of the stairs.
She was wearing a cream blouse and black trousers, her hair still perfectly arranged. She held a mug of coffee in one hand.
When she saw Grandpa, she stopped.
When she saw Denise, she tightened her grip on the mug.
“What is this?”” she demanded.
I looked directly at her.
“I want my mother's music box.””
Vanessa descended two steps.
“Why would you want that old thing?””
“Because it belonged to her.””
“It was a cheap decoration.””
“It was hers.””
Vanessa's mouth tightened.
“Your mother left plenty of things behind, Maya. You can't expect me to keep every little object she ever owned.””
“Then you won't mind showing me where it is.””
She stared at me.
My father shifted uncomfortably beside the door.
“Vanessa, if she wants the box, just give it to her.””
Vanessa turned on him.
“You're taking her side again?””
“It's a music box.””
“No, Marcus. It's never just one thing with Maya.””
Grandpa stepped forward.
“Vanessa, nobody is accusing you of anything. We're asking for a personal belonging that may contain papers Maya has a right to examine.””
Vanessa laughed bitterly.
“Of course you are. You and your attorney have spent twenty-four hours trying to make me look like a thief.””
Denise remained composed.
“The financial review is ongoing. We are not here to discuss that matter.””
“Then stop bringing it into my house!””
My father rubbed his forehead.
“Please. Can we do this without another argument?””
Vanessa looked from him to me.
Then she smiled.
It was the same smile she used when she wanted people to believe she was being reasonable.
“Fine,” she said.
“I'll get it.””
She disappeared upstairs.
We waited in the foyer.
A minute passed.
Then another.
I heard a drawer open somewhere above us. A door closed. Footsteps crossed the upstairs hallway.
Finally, Vanessa returned carrying the blue music box.
Its silver butterfly was tarnished, and one corner of the lid had chipped. But I recognized it instantly.
She held it away from her body as if it were something dirty.
“Here. Happy now?””
I reached for it.
She didn't release it.
“Before you take this,” she said, “you should understand something. Your mother wasn't the saint everyone pretends she was.””
My fingers tightened around the box.
“What does that mean?””
Vanessa leaned closer.
“It means there are things about your mother that your grandfather never told you.””
Then she let go.
I held the music box against my chest.
My father stared at Vanessa.
“Why would you say that?””
She lifted her coffee mug.
“Because I'm tired of everyone pretending this family was perfect before I arrived.””
Grandpa's voice turned cold.
“Nobody has said that.””
Vanessa looked at me one last time.
“Ask your grandfather what happened during the last month of Renee's life.””
Then she walked away.
I stood in the foyer, holding the music box, while my father watched his wife disappear around the corner.
For the first time, I wasn't sure which frightened me more.
What Vanessa might have done to my education fund.
Or what she might know about my mother.
And when I opened the music box in Grandpa's car, I discovered that someone had already removed the little silver key that wound its mechanism.
Inside the empty compartment lay a folded piece of paper.
May you like
My mother's handwriting was unmistakable.
*Maya, if you're reading this, someone has finally decided you are old enough to know the truth.*
