Ethan looked between them.
“Before what?”
Nothing.
“Sophie?”
The little girl shook her head.
“Before what?”
Claire interrupted.
“This is not productive.”
Ethan ignored her.
“Soph.”
The child whispered:
“Before I saw it.”
Ethan became very still.
“Saw what?”
Claire’s face changed.
There.
He saw it.
Fear.
Not frustration.
Not sadness.
Fear.
“Sophie,” Claire said.
Ethan turned.
“Do not.”
Claire stopped.
His gaze returned to his daughter.
“What did you see?”
Sophie looked toward the staircase.
“In your office.”
Ethan’s pulse changed.
“What was in my office?”
“She had Mommy’s box.”
Claire went pale.
Ethan stared.
“What box?”
Sophie whispered:
“The green one.”
He stopped breathing.
There was only one green box connected to his late wife.
Rachel’s document box.
Ethan’s first wife, Rachel Mercer, had died three years earlier after a sudden cerebral aneurysm.
She was thirty-four.
Sophie was two.
Rachel’s belongings had been sorted slowly.
Clothing.
Books.
Photographs.
Jewelry.
Letters.
The green archival box was different.
Rachel used it for personal financial documents, handwritten notes, and records connected to the Mercer Family Trust, an estate vehicle created by Ethan’s grandfather.
After Rachel died, Ethan barely opened it.
Eventually he locked the box inside the bottom cabinet of his private study.
Only two people knew the code.
Ethan.
And, after their marriage, Claire.
He had given it to her when he added her to emergency household documents.
“What was Claire doing with the box?”
Sophie looked at Claire.
The woman’s face had become completely still.
“I don’t know.”
“What did you see?”
“Papers.”
“What papers?”
“Mommy’s writing.”
Ethan’s heart beat harder.
Rachel’s handwriting.
“What else?”
“Claire took pictures.”
Silence.
Ethan turned.
“Pictures of what?”
Claire shook her head.
“She’s confused.”
“Are you saying she didn’t see you with the box?”
“I was organizing estate records.”
“When?”
Claire hesitated.
“Last week.”
Ethan stared.
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“I know.”
“Why were you doing it?”
“Because the accountants needed information.”
“What accountants?”
“Our accountants.”
“Mine do not contact you for trust documents.”
Claire’s lips parted.
Then closed.
Ethan’s voice became quieter.
“Who needed the records?”
“This is not the moment.”
“That means someone did.”
Claire looked toward Sophie.
Ethan shifted the girl higher.
“Who?”
“My attorney.”
The room became silent.
Ethan stared.
“Your attorney.”
Claire nodded.
“Why does your attorney need Rachel’s estate documents?”
She looked exhausted.
“Because I have been trying to understand what happens if something happens to you.”
The answer sounded reasonable.
Almost.
Estate planning.
Married couple.
Child.
Trust.
Except Claire had never raised the question with him.
“What exactly were you photographing?”