Chapter 2 - THE APARTMENT ROSALIND DIDN’T WANT ME TO SEE
The Raven mark could wait.
Rosalind could not.
Ivy finally gave Desmond the address after I told her an ambulance could not help her mother without it.
Commonwealth Avenue.
Brighton.
Less than four miles from my house.
For twelve years, I had imagined Rosalind hiding somewhere far away.
Arizona.
Vermont.
Canada.
She had been living a twenty-minute drive from my front gate.
The ambulance reached her building before we did.
Boston Police met us there.
I stayed outside the apartment until an officer cleared it.
That was new for me.
So was being told to wait.
I disliked both.
Ivy held my hand.
I had not offered it.
She had simply taken two fingers when the paramedics ran upstairs.
I let her.
A medic came down.
“Adult female, mid-thirties. High fever, low oxygen saturation, significant dehydration. She’s conscious but confused.”
“Poison?”
He looked at me strangely.
“We don’t know.”
“She drank tea from a cup someone may have tampered with.”
“We’ll tell the hospital.”
“Which hospital?”
“St. Elizabeth’s.”
Ivy squeezed harder.
“Can I go?”
“Yes.”
The officer beside us said, “We need to establish your relationship.”
“I’m not family.”
I looked at Ivy.
She looked back.
“Not exactly.”
Rosalind came past us on the stretcher.
Her face was flushed.
Hair stuck to her forehead.
Twelve years had changed her.
Not enough.
Her eyes opened.
Found me.
For one second, fear replaced fever.
“Dominic?”
“I’m here.”
She tried to sit up.
The paramedic stopped her.
“Ivy.”
“She’s safe.”
Rosalind closed her eyes.
“Don’t take her to them.”
“Who?”
Her hand lifted weakly.
Caught my sleeve.
“Julian’s trust.”
Then she lost consciousness.
At the hospital, the initial answer was disappointingly ordinary.
Influenza A.
Secondary pneumonia.
The tea tested negative on a rapid field screen for common toxins.
Doctors did not rule out everything.
But Rosalind was sick because people got sick.
Not every crisis needed poison.
I found that strangely reassuring.
Her apartment did not.
Someone had searched it.
Not destroyed.
Searched.
Drawers open.
Mattress shifted.
Bathroom cabinet emptied.
Laptop missing.
A framed photograph face down on the carpet.
Boston Police treated it as a possible burglary tied to the threatening note.
The car-bomb investigation had already brought the FBI and ATF into my week.
Once the raven mark appeared, my lawyer insisted the note be shared with them too.
I did not enjoy giving federal agents anything.
But somebody had put explosives under my car.
Pride had already cost enough.
At 4:10 that afternoon, Ivy sat beside Rosalind’s hospital bed eating chicken soup.
She had refused to leave her mother.
I sat by the window.
Desmond stood outside.
Rosalind woke.
Really woke.
Her eyes found Ivy first.
Then me.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“That greeting held up well after twelve years.”
“Dominic.”
“You sent your daughter to my house.”
“I sent her with a résumé.”
“And a raven threat.”
Her face tightened.
“So she gave you that.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“What does Julian have to do with her seventh birthday?”
Rosalind closed her eyes.
“Not in front of Ivy.”
I looked at the girl.
She was pretending not to listen.
“Ivy.”
“Yes?”
“Desmond has been informed there is a vending machine with terrible cookies.”
She considered him through the glass.
“Does he have money?”
“I employ him.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
Rosalind almost laughed.
Desmond took Ivy.
When the door closed, I faced Rosalind.
“Talk.”
She looked at me.
“You still order people around.”
“I got blown up last week. It affected my charm.”
Her expression changed.
“The bomb was before I called the lawyer.”
“What lawyer?”
“Probate.”
My stomach tightened.
“Why probate?”
She reached slowly toward the bedside drawer.
Her coat and documents had been bagged.
Inside was a worn photograph.
Julian.
My brother.
Twenty-nine years old.
Smiling.
Holding a baby wrapped in a yellow blanket.
I did not breathe.
“No.”
Rosalind watched me.
“Ivy was three months old.”
I looked at the photograph.
Julian’s scar above his chin.
His ridiculous Red Sox cap.
His hand around a baby’s head.
“You knew Julian.”
“For four years.”
“How?”
“He found me.”
“Where?”
“Providence.”
“When?”
“Seven years after you let me go.”
That timeline hit me wrong.
“You disappeared twelve years ago.”
“Yes.”
“Julian found you five years later.”
“Yes.”
“He died eight years ago.”
“Seven years and four months.”
I stared.
“You counted.”
“Every day.”
My eyes returned to the baby.
“Is Ivy his?”
Rosalind did not answer.
She did not need to.
“Why didn’t he tell me?”
“Because he did not trust your family.”
“I am his family.”
“He trusted you.”
“Then why?”
“Because he knew trusting you meant trusting whatever was around you.”
That hurt because it was probably true.
“What happened?”
Rosalind looked toward the door.
“Julian started asking why the Raven accounts still existed.”
My skin tightened.
“They didn’t.”
“They did.”
“My father shut them down.”
“No.”
“Rosalind.”
“He moved them.”
“Where?”
“Family trusts. Foundations. Property companies. Clean names.”
I stared.
“Julian found them?”
“Yes.”
“And you helped.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I knew the original ledger codes.”
I looked down at the raven note.
“What does Ivy’s birthday have to do with this?”
Rosalind pulled another photograph from the envelope.
Not a photograph.
A photocopy of a trust summary.
JULIAN VINCENT ASHWORTH IRREVOCABLE DESCENDANT TRUST.
I had heard of it.
Julian’s portion of our grandfather’s estate.
After Julian died without children, I had been told his interest returned to the family trust.
Rosalind watched me read.
“He did not die without children.”
I looked up.
She continued.
“Julian signed a paternity acknowledgment before Ivy was born.”
“Where?”
“With a lawyer in Providence.”
“Then why wasn’t the trust notified?”
“He told me not to file until she turned seven.”
“Why seven?”
“The trust changes at seven.”
I knew there were age provisions.
I had never read every annex.
My mother and Uncle Gideon handled family trust administration.
“What changes?”
Rosalind’s voice went quiet.
“Ivy’s share stops being discretionary.”
“What does that mean?”
“She becomes an acknowledged descendant beneficiary.”
“How much?”
“Twenty-four percent of Julian’s branch.”
My chest tightened.
“And who becomes trustee?”
Rosalind looked directly at me.
“You.”
I sat back.
“No.”
“He changed it.”
“When?”
“Six weeks before he died.”
“I never agreed.”
“He said you wouldn’t have to unless he died.”
“He never told me.”
“He planned to.”
“But he died.”
“Yes.”
Officially, Julian died after losing control of his Porsche on Route 2 near Concord.
Alcohol above the legal limit.
No second car identified.
No murder case.
Just another Ashworth funeral where everyone whispered that our blood eventually collected its debts.
Rosalind continued.
“On Ivy’s seventh birthday, the successor-trustee clause activated automatically.”
Nine days ago.
Two days before my car bomb.
My skin went cold.
“Who knows?”
“I filed notice eleven days ago.”
“With?”
“The family trust administrator.”
“Who?”
“Gideon.”
My uncle.
My father’s younger brother.
The man who had handled Ashworth money since I was twenty.
“What happened?”
“No response.”
“Then?”
“My probate lawyer got a call from Ashworth family counsel saying Julian had died without issue and the claim was fraudulent.”
“Who signed that?”
“I don’t know.”
She reached beneath the hospital blanket.
“Then someone emptied the support account.”
“What support account?”
“The money we lived on.”
I stared.
“Who paid you?”
“I thought you did.”
“No.”
Her face changed.
“For twelve years?”
“I gave you twenty thousand once.”
“That’s all?”
“Yes.”
Rosalind looked genuinely frightened now.
“We received money every month.”
“How much?”
“Three thousand at first. More after Ivy was born.”
“From whom?”
“North Beacon Beneficiary Services.”
I knew the name.
Ashworth family office.
Someone inside my family had known exactly where Rosalind lived.
For twelve years.
I stood.
“Who authorized the payments?”
Rosalind looked at me.
“I assumed you.”
“I didn’t.”
“Then who?”
My phone vibrated.
Desmond.
I answered.
“What?”
“We searched the public filing tied to North Beacon.”
“And?”
“Authorized family representative.”
“Name.”
He hesitated.
May you like
“Helena Ashworth.”
My mother.
