Chapter 2 - THE BLUE MUSIC BOX MY FATHER LEFT BEHIND“CLAIRE, IF SOMEONE KNOWS ABOUT THAT MUSIC BOX, THEN SOMEONE HAS BEEN INSIDE YOUR FATHER'S HOUSE. AND AFTER WHAT HAPPENED TONIGHT, I DON'T THINK YOU SHOULD TRUST ANYONE CONNECTED TO THE MORETTIS.”
Nathan's warning stayed with me as we drove away from the family estate.
The iron gates disappeared behind us.
I looked down at the three anonymous messages on my phone.
My father had owned a blue music box.
I remembered it perfectly.
It was small, decorated with hand-painted white flowers, and kept inside the library of our riverside mansion.
When I was little, he used to wind it before bedtime.
A delicate melody would fill the room.
My mother had loved that music.
After she died, my father rarely opened the box again.
I hadn't thought about it in years.
“How would someone know about the music box?” Nathan asked.
“I don't know.”
“Could Richard?”
I shook my head.
“Dad hated having business visitors in the private rooms. Richard rarely went beyond the front sitting room.”
Nathan thought for a moment.
“Then the sender might have known your father personally.”
I stared through the windshield.
Lake Michigan's distant lights shimmered against the dark Chicago skyline.
My father, Thomas Bennett, had been a successful civil engineer and real estate investor.
He wasn't a billionaire.
He wasn't famous.
But he was respected, principled, and fiercely protective of the people he loved.
When my mother died, he raised me alone.
His favorite saying was simple.
“Claire, never confuse wealth with character. Money tells you what someone owns. Character tells you what they'll protect.”
At twenty-five, I thought I understood.
At thirty-two, I finally did.
We arrived at Nathan's office shortly before nine.
He suggested documenting the messages before doing anything else.
“I'm going to preserve these and contact a forensic document examiner,” he said.
I sat opposite his desk.
“Do you really think someone forged my signature?”
“I think there is enough here to investigate seriously. But we need the original loan records, not assumptions.”
He paused.
“And we need to understand why your father might have been involved.”
I rubbed my temples.
“Richard said my father wasn't the victim.”
Nathan looked troubled.
“That sounds like an accusation designed to make you doubt what you know. It isn't evidence.”
I nodded.
Then my phone rang.
Vincent.
I nearly ignored it.
But something made me answer.
“What do you want?”
His voice sounded different.
Less arrogant.
More guarded.
“Where are you?”
“Somewhere safe.”
“Claire, we need to talk.”
“We just spent an hour talking.”
“Not about us.”
I straightened.
“What do you mean?”
He hesitated.
“After you left, my father called an emergency meeting with our chief financial officer.”
“About the loan?”
“Yes.”
I waited.
Vincent lowered his voice.
“He told me the Bennett property had been used in a financing arrangement years ago. He said your father knew about it.”
I gripped the phone.
“My father died before we married.”
“I know.”
“Then how could Dad have authorized a loan involving a property he later transferred to me?”
Vincent didn't answer immediately.
“That is what I'm trying to figure out.”
For the first time in years, I heard uncertainty in my husband's voice.
But uncertainty wasn't honesty.
“Vincent, did you know my signature was on those documents?”
“No.”
“Can you prove that?”
Another silence.
Then he said something unexpected.
“Claire, I think my father has been lying to both of us.”
I closed my eyes.
Of all the things I had expected to hear that night, those words weren't among them.
“Then ask him for the records.”
“He won't give them to me.”
“Vincent, you're the CEO.”
“And apparently there are agreements signed before I became CEO that I wasn't allowed to examine.”
Nathan watched my expression carefully.
I stood.
“I'm going to my father's house tomorrow.”
Vincent's voice sharpened.
“Why?”
“Because it's my property.”
“Claire, don't go there.”
My stomach tightened.
“Why not?”
He hesitated.
Then he whispered.
“Because my father just ordered the security staff to secure it.”
The call ended.
I stared at the screen.
Nathan rose from his chair.
“What happened?”
I told him.
His expression darkened.
“Then we need to get there before someone removes whatever they're trying to hide.”
We agreed to leave first thing in the morning.
Neither of us slept much.
At eight-thirty, Nathan picked me up outside my penthouse.
I wore jeans, boots, and a dark wool coat.
For once, I didn't care about looking like the perfect billionaire's wife.
I cared about finding the truth.
The drive to the North Shore took less than an hour.
When the mansion appeared beyond the trees, memories rushed back.
The white stone exterior.
The broad front steps.
The old oak trees bordering the driveway.
And the shimmering river beyond the gardens.
My father had loved that house.
He had built the library himself.
But something was wrong.
The front gate stood open.
A black SUV was parked near the entrance.
And the front door was slightly ajar.
Nathan stopped the car.
“Stay here.”
I shook my head.
“No. We're going together.”
We approached cautiously.
The house was silent.
Inside, several drawers had been pulled open.
Papers covered the library floor.
Someone had searched the room.
My heart pounded.
“Dad's music box,” I whispered.
I rushed toward the antique writing desk.
The small blue box was still there.
Untouched.
Or so it seemed.
Nathan checked the hallway while I lifted the lid.
The familiar melody began to play.
For a moment, I was seven years old again.
Then I noticed something unusual.
The velvet lining looked loose.
I gently lifted one corner.
Underneath lay a tiny brass key.
And a folded piece of paper.
My father's handwriting.
Claire, if you're reading this, someone has finally tried to take what I protected for you.
My hands began to tremble.
I unfolded the rest.
The truth isn't in the mansion. It's in Locker 317 at Union Station. Trust Eleanor Price. She knows what Richard did.
I read the words twice.
Eleanor Price.
My father's former accountant.
A woman I hadn't seen since his funeral.
Then a sound came from the hallway.
Footsteps.
Nathan appeared in the doorway.
His face was pale.
“Claire, we need to leave. Now.”
“Why?”
He pointed toward the front window.
Two black vehicles had entered the driveway.
Men in dark suits were stepping out.
And standing beside them was someone I recognized immediately.
Sophia Carter.
She looked directly through the window.
May you like
Then raised her phone.
And smiled.
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