Chapter 3 - THE ROOM WE WEREN’T ALLOWED TO ENTER
We had not been inside the playroom in four years.
Not because stairs were difficult.
The mansion had an elevator.
Not because the room was inaccessible.
Dad had renovated it for us before we started using wheelchairs full-time.
Wide doorway.
Low shelves.
Open floor.
A window seat we could transfer onto without help.
After Dad died, Mom locked it.
By morning, Dante had left.
His gifts remained in our possession because Mom's attorney told her taking them from us could create its own problem.
That was the first time I realized adults sometimes behaved better when lawyers entered a room.
Mom canceled school.
Another mistake.
It gave Esme and me all day to investigate her.
We started with the party.
Every parent had received the same message:
Due to a family medical issue, Ivy and Esme’s celebration has been canceled.
Sent from Mom's personal assistant account.
Her assistant swore Mom instructed her verbally after receiving the photograph.
“So you weren't protecting us from embarrassment,” Esme said.
“You emptied the house.”
Mom did not answer.
That wording had landed.
By afternoon, a lawyer named Rachel Kim arrived.
Not Mom's corporate lawyer.
Dad's old estate attorney.
Dante had called her.
Rachel was sixty, calm, and apparently impossible to intimidate.
She inspected the key.
Then the boxes.
“Adrian deposited these with my office four years ago.”
Mom stared.
“You knew?”
“I knew there were sealed materials.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because Adrian instructed me not to.”
Mom laughed without humor.
“Everyone seems very comfortable making decisions about my daughters.”
I almost said including you.
Esme beat me to it.
Rachel explained that Dad's instruction contained a deadline.
Our eleventh birthday.
If Celeste certified before then that she had made a particular disclosure to us, the materials would be destroyed.
She never did.
“What disclosure?” I asked.
Rachel looked at Mom.
Mom looked away.
Rachel answered:
“The circumstances surrounding your father's death.”
I felt cold.
We had always known Dad had been killed.
A home invasion.
One intruder.
No arrest.
Mom rarely discussed it.
“What circumstances?”
Rachel did not answer beyond the record.
That irritated me.
It also made me trust her slightly more.
Then she asked:
“Celeste, is the playroom still sealed?”
“Yes.”
“Has anyone entered since Adrian died?”
Mom hesitated.
“Not until recently.”
Dante had shown Rachel the anonymous photograph.
Someone had entered.
Rachel recommended contacting the detective who originally handled Dad's case before we opened anything.
Mom objected immediately.
“No police.”
That was the first thing she said that made me afraid of her.
Not because it proved guilt.
Because innocent people can fear police too.
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But Mom didn't look afraid of being misunderstood.
She looked afraid of what they might find.
