Chapter 2 - The Letters Behind the Canvas
At the hospital, the doctor confirmed Isaiah had a fractured wrist and bruising. She explained the treatment, asked him about his pain, and arranged for a hospital social worker to speak with him privately. Malcolm listened without interrupting. For once, money could not make the process move faster, and he did not try.
Isaiah sat on the examination bed wearing a paper snowflake sticker a nurse had given him.
"Am I in trouble?" he asked.
"No," Malcolm said.
"Celeste says you get mad when I make people ask questions."
Malcolm felt the words land harder than any accusation. "I should have been asking questions myself."
The social worker asked Malcolm to wait outside while she spoke to Isaiah. He did. In the corridor, he called his sister, Renee, a public school principal who had never warmed to Celeste.
"Come to St. Agnes," he said. "Isaiah's hurt."
"How badly?"
"His wrist is broken."
"Malcolm."
"I know."
"No, you don't. I tried to tell you last Thanksgiving."
He remembered dismissing her concerns as family tension. "Tell me when you get here."
At the mansion, Andre stood watch while a technician documented the portrait and the surrounding wall. Celeste insisted the papers were old household correspondence. Andre did not argue. He simply kept everyone out of the foyer until Malcolm's attorney, Dana Ellis, arrived with a preservation plan.
When the frame came down, a cloth pouch fell from the back. Inside were twenty-three blue envelopes, a small flash drive, and a folded receipt from a storage facility.
The letters were addressed to Malcolm in Simone's handwriting. The first was dated six weeks before she died.
Malcolm read them at the hospital after Isaiah fell asleep.
My love, if you're reading this, I finally found the courage to tell you what I've been afraid to say. The accounts don't match. Someone is moving money through the neighborhood housing fund. I think the person helping us is the person taking it.
Simone had been the accountant for Brooks Homes, Malcolm's nonprofit housing arm. She died in a highway collision four years earlier. The police had ruled it an accident. Malcolm had accepted the report because grief had left him unable to imagine another explanation.
The next letter mentioned a woman named Celeste Vaughn. Celeste's maiden name.
Malcolm stopped reading.
He had met Celeste at a charity fundraiser eight months after Simone's death. She told him she admired Simone's work. He had thought that kindness was why Isaiah liked her at first.
Dana called. "I need to tell you something before you open the drive."
"What?"
"The storage receipt is in Simone's name. The unit was accessed three months after her death."
"By whom?"
"Celeste Vaughn."
Malcolm looked through the glass at his sleeping son. "How did she have the key?"
"That's what we're going to find out."
Renee arrived carrying a blanket from Isaiah's old room at her house. She sat beside Malcolm and read the first letter. Her expression hardened.
"Simone called me two days before the crash," she said. "She wanted me to take Isaiah for the weekend. She sounded scared."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I did. You said she was stressed about work."
He remembered. He wished he didn't.
The hospital social worker returned. Isaiah had described being made to eat alone in the laundry room, having his mother's belongings taken away, and being threatened with boarding school if he complained. The worker explained that the hospital would make the appropriate report and coordinate a safe discharge plan.
Malcolm asked if Isaiah could stay with Renee while they investigated.
"We'll work with you and the relevant authorities on a safe arrangement," she said.
He nodded. He wanted an instant answer; Isaiah needed a careful one.
At midnight, Celeste called seventeen times. Malcolm answered once.
"Where is my husband?" she demanded.
"With my son."
"You're letting that maid turn you against me."
"Odessa told me only what she witnessed."
"Then come home and hear my side."
"You can speak with the investigators."
Silence. Then: "Did you take down the portrait?"
Malcolm looked at the letters in his lap. "Why?"
"It was expensive."
"So was my son's trust."
May you like
The call ended.
He had not mentioned the trust to anyone. Yet the final envelope in the pouch bore two words in Simone's handwriting: ISAIAH'S MONEY.
