CHAPTER 2 — THE WOMAN WEARING MY MOTHER'S PEARLS
CHAPTER 2 — THE WOMAN WEARING MY MOTHER'S PEARLS
I didn't breathe.
The black sedan disappeared beyond the stone wall at the end of the street.
For several seconds, I could still see the faint reflection of its taillights through the rain.
Then my father spoke.
“Claire.”
I turned toward him.
“What?”
He looked older than he had ten minutes earlier.
“Close the curtains.”
“Dad—”
“Now.”
Something in his voice made me obey.
I pulled the curtains shut.
The room suddenly felt smaller.
Miriam stood beside the desk, staring at the empty drawer where my mother's letters had been.
“Who was in that car?” she asked.
I looked at my father.
He didn't answer.
“Dad.”
He walked toward the window.
“I'm not sure.”
“You saw her.”
“I saw a woman.”
“She was wearing my mother's pearls.”
“I know.”
“Then you know who she is.”
He turned.
“No.”
The answer came too quickly.
I studied his face.
“You're lying.”
He looked away.
My heart began pounding.
“Dad.”
“Claire, listen to me.”
“No.”
I stepped closer.
“You told me my mother was murdered.”
“Yes.”
“You told me her death was an accident for twenty-two years.”
“I was trying to protect you.”
“From what?”
He didn't answer.
“From whom?”
Still nothing.
I felt anger rising inside me.
“You don't get to do this anymore.”
His eyes met mine.
“You don't get to decide what I can handle.”
“I know.”
“Then tell me everything.”
He looked at Miriam.
She lowered her eyes.
That was enough.
There was something they were both hiding.
And I was done being the last person to know.
My father finally sat down.
“Your mother had a second set of pearls.”
I frowned.
“What?”
“The ones you saw tonight were not the only pair.”
I stared at him.
“You told me those were hers.”
“They were.”
“Then what do you mean?”
He leaned forward.
“Eleanor owned two identical sets.”
I shook my head.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“My mother only had one.”
“That is what I told you.”
I stared at him.
“You lied.”
“Yes.”
The word landed harder than I expected.
“Why?”
“Because the second necklace disappeared the night she died.”
I swallowed.
“What happened to it?”
“We don't know.”
I remembered the woman in the car.
The pale face.
The dark hair.
The pearls resting against her throat.
“Dad.”
He looked at me.
“What if she had them?”
“Who?”
“The woman.”
He didn't respond.
“What if she has my mother's pearls?”
“That would mean someone gave them to her.”
“Or she took them.”
“From where?”
I looked toward the empty drawer.
“From my house.”
My father's expression changed.
We returned to the house the next morning.
This time, Grant wasn't there.
Neither was Vanessa.
The security team searched the property before allowing us inside.
The house looked different in daylight.
Colder.
The polished marble.
The expensive artwork.
The crystal chandeliers.
Everything that had once represented success now looked like evidence.
I walked through the foyer.
My bare feet from the night before had left no trace.
Someone had cleaned the floor.
I stopped.
“They cleaned the blood.”
My father looked down.
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“Grant.”
“Why?”
Miriam answered.
“To remove evidence.”
I looked at her.
“Then let's make sure he didn't remove everything.”
We went upstairs.
My bedroom door was open.
The bed had been made.
The room smelled of bleach.
I walked to the dresser.
My jewelry box was missing.
I froze.
“Dad.”
He came behind me.
“What?”
“My jewelry.”
“Was anything valuable inside?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“My mother's watch.”
“Anything else?”
“The earrings.”
“The pearls?”
“No.”
I looked around.
“The necklace wasn't here.”
“Where was it?”
“In the safe.”
My father stared at me.
“What safe?”
I pointed toward the wall.
“There.”
He examined the panel.
Then looked at Miriam.
“Open it.”
She did.
The hidden safe appeared.
Empty.
Every compartment.
Every envelope.
Every document.
Gone.
My mother's necklace.
My passport.
Several property records.
A small envelope containing photographs.
Everything had been removed.
I felt sick.
“Grant knew about this safe.”
My father shook his head.
“Who else?”
I thought.
Then remembered.
Vanessa.
She had lived in the house long enough to know everything.
But she hadn't been my wife's friend.
She had been Grant's mistress.
How could she know about a hidden safe?
Unless—
I turned around.
“Grant showed her.”
My father looked at me.
“Probably.”
“No.”
I shook my head.
“He didn't.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Because Vanessa didn't look surprised when she saw me wearing the earrings.”
My father frowned.
“She looked at me like she already knew exactly who I was.”
I remembered her smile.
The way she had touched the pearl earrings.
The way she had looked at herself in the mirror.
And suddenly another detail surfaced.
She had said something.
One sentence.
I hadn't thought about it at the time.
But now it came back.
“They look just like hers.”
I turned to my father.
“She knew my mother.”
Miriam searched the old family records.
Two hours later, she found something.
A photograph.
Eleanor standing beside a younger woman.
The woman was about twenty-five.
Dark hair.
Sharp cheekbones.
A pearl necklace around her throat.
I stared at the photograph.
It was Vanessa.
My hands went cold.
“Who is she?”
Miriam looked at my father.
He said nothing.
I took the photograph.
“Dad.”
Finally, he spoke.
“Her mother worked for your mother.”
“Who?”
“Rebecca Cole.”
I looked at the name.
“Vanessa's mother?”
“Yes.”
“What did she do?”
“She was Eleanor's personal assistant.”
“For how long?”
“Eight years.”
I looked at the photograph again.
“Then Vanessa knew my mother.”
“Yes.”
“And you knew Vanessa?”
My father hesitated.
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because I didn't know she was involved with Grant.”
“That isn't what I asked.”
He looked down.
“I knew her family.”
I stared at him.
“How well?”
“Too well.”
That afternoon, we found Rebecca Cole.
Or what remained of her records.
She had died twelve years earlier.
Cancer.
No suspicious circumstances.
But there was a strange detail.
Three months before her death, Rebecca had withdrawn a large amount of money.
Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
My father remembered the transaction.
“Your mother gave it to her.”
“Why?”
“I don't know.”
“That's impossible.”
“I didn't manage your mother's personal finances.”
“Who did?”
He looked at Miriam.
“Miriam's predecessor.”
I turned toward her.
“Who was that?”
She hesitated.
“Thomas Whitmore.”
I froze.
“Grant's father?”
“Yes.”
Everything inside me seemed to stop.
“My mother trusted Grant's father?”
“At one point.”
“Then why did she die?”
Miriam looked at me.
“That is what we are trying to find out.”
At six that evening, my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
“Hello?”
No one spoke.
Then a woman's voice whispered:
“You should stop looking.”
My blood went cold.
“Who is this?”
“You don't understand what you're opening.”
“Where is my mother's necklace?”
Silence.
Then:
“You saw it.”
I stood.
“You were in the car.”
Another silence.
“Who are you?”
The woman laughed softly.
Then she said:
“Ask your father why your mother hated the Vance name.”
The call ended.
I turned toward my father.
He had heard everything.
“What does she mean?”
He looked at me.
“Nothing.”
I laughed bitterly.
“Nothing?”
“Claire—”
“No.”
I stepped toward him.
“I'm done.”
“Done with what?”
“Being protected.”
His face hardened.
“I'm your father.”
“Exactly.”
I pointed toward him.
“You're supposed to trust me with the truth.”
He looked away.
“And every time I ask a question, you give me another lie.”
He didn't defend himself.
That hurt more.
I walked out.
I drove to the only place I could think of.
My mother's old gallery.
It had been closed since her death.
My father had never sold it.
He said he couldn't.
I had always thought it was sentimental.
Now I wondered whether it was evidence.
The key still worked.
Inside, dust covered everything.
Paintings hung beneath white sheets.
The air smelled like old wood and oil paint.
I turned on the lights.
Then I saw it.
A portrait of my mother.
She was standing beside a window.
Wearing the pearl necklace.
I approached slowly.
There was something strange about the painting.
The necklace looked different.
One pearl was darker than the others.
I touched the frame.
It moved.
Behind it was a small compartment.
Inside was an envelope.
My name was written on it.
Claire.
My hands shook.
I opened it.
There was a photograph.
My mother.
Vanessa's mother, Rebecca.
And another man.
Thomas Whitmore.
Grant's father.
All three were standing outside a courthouse.
On the back, my mother had written:
THEY THINK I DON'T KNOW.
I turned the photograph over again.
There was more writing beneath it.
If anything happens to me, watch Vanessa.
My heart stopped.
I stared at the name.
Vanessa.
Not Grant.
Not Thomas.
Vanessa.
Why would my mother have been watching her?
I pulled out my phone.
I searched the photograph.
Nothing.
Then I noticed a date.
Twenty-two years ago.
Vanessa would have been a child.
I frowned.
That made no sense.
Unless—
I zoomed in on the woman beside my mother.
Rebecca.
She was not looking at the camera.
She was looking at Thomas.
And Thomas was holding something.
A file.
Stamped with the Vance Global logo.
I looked closer.
There was a name on the cover.
PROJECT ELEANOR.
My mother's name.
I heard footsteps behind me.
I turned.
Vanessa stood in the doorway.
She was wearing a black coat.
No makeup.
No smile.
And around her neck—
My mother's pearls.
I froze.
“You.”
She closed the door behind her.
“You shouldn't have come here.”
I stepped backward.
“How did you know I was here?”
She didn't answer.
“Why are you wearing my mother's necklace?”
She touched the pearls.
“Because she gave them to me.”
I laughed.
“You expect me to believe that?”
“She did.”
“My mother died twenty-two years ago.”
“I know.”
“Then explain.”
Vanessa looked at the photograph in my hand.
Her face changed.
For the first time, I saw fear.
“You found it.”
“Found what?”
“The photograph.”
“Who is Project Eleanor?”
She stared at me.
Then whispered:
“You really don't know.”
“Know what?”
She took a step toward me.
“Your mother wasn't killed because of your father's company.”
“Then why?”
“Because she discovered who was stealing from it.”
“Who?”
Vanessa looked toward the door.
“They're watching us.”
“Who?”
She shook her head.
“I can't tell you here.”
“Then tell me somewhere else.”
She reached into her coat.
I stepped back.
She pulled out a small key.
Then placed it in my hand.
“The old Vance warehouse.”
I looked at it.
“What's there?”
“The last thing your mother left.”
“What?”
Vanessa looked directly into my eyes.
“Proof.”
“Proof of what?”
She whispered:
“That Grant didn't marry you for your money.”
I stared at her.
“That was only the beginning.”
Then the lights went out.
A loud crash came from the front of the gallery.
Vanessa grabbed my wrist.
“Run.”
“Where?”
“Back door.”
“What about you?”
“I'll follow.”
We ran through the dark gallery.
Behind us, glass shattered.
Someone had entered.
I heard footsteps.
Then a man's voice.
“Claire!”
Grant.
I stopped.
Vanessa pulled me forward.
“Don't.”
“But that's my husband.”
“No.”
She tightened her grip.
“That's the man who has been looking for your mother's evidence for seven years.”
Another crash.
Grant shouted again.
“Claire, don't listen to her!”
I looked back.
For one second, I saw him standing beneath the doorway.
His face was furious.
Then he said something that made my blood turn cold.
“Ask Vanessa what happened to her mother.”
Vanessa stopped running.
I looked at her.
Her face had gone white.
“Vanessa?”
She whispered:
“My mother didn't die of cancer.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
“She was murdered.”
The footsteps behind us grew louder.
Vanessa opened the back door.
Rain poured into the alley.
She pushed me outside.
“Go!”
I ran.
But before I reached the car, she caught my arm.
“One more thing.”
“What?”
She looked at the pearls around her neck.
“These aren't my mother's.”
“Then whose are they?”
Vanessa's eyes filled with tears.
“Your mother's.”
She removed the necklace.
Then pressed it into my hand.
“But she didn't give them to me.”
“Then how did you get them?”
Vanessa looked back toward the gallery.
“Your husband gave them to me.”
I stared at her.
“Why?”
She whispered:
“Because he wanted me to look exactly like your mother.”
Then the first police sirens appeared at the end of the street.
And I realized the woman I had thought was my husband's mistress might have been a pawn in the murder of my mother all along.
But I still didn't know the most important question.
May you like
Who had ordered Grant to put those pearls around her neck?
And why did they want me to see them?
