Chapter 6 - The Room Behind the Portrait
I stared at the photograph until the edges of my vision began to blur.
My mother was sitting in a wooden chair.
Her beige coat lay across her knees.
There was a small cut above her eyebrow.
Behind her hung an oil portrait of Edward Ashford, Julian's father.
I knew that portrait.
I had polished its gold frame twice a week for eleven months.
It belonged in the old west wing of the estate.
"She's here," I whispered.
Julian leaned over my shoulder.
His face changed immediately.
"That's my father's private sitting room."
Detective Monroe took the phone.
"Are you certain?"
"That portrait hasn't left the house in twenty years."
She touched her radio.
"All units, we have a possible hostage situation on the property."
"Secure the west wing."
I grabbed her arm.
"My mother is in there."
Monroe looked at me.
"Then you need to let us do our jobs."
I knew she was right.
But knowing that didn't make it easier to stand still.
Julian turned toward the hallway.
"I can show you another entrance."
The detective stopped him.
"You're not entering that room."
"There's a service staircase behind the old library."
"Give me the layout."
Julian went to his study and retrieved the architectural plans.
The Ashford estate had been built in stages, beginning in 1912.
The original west wing contained narrow servant corridors, concealed storage rooms, and an old dumbwaiter shaft.
After his mother died, Edward Ashford had renovated the entire section.
Julian remembered playing hide-and-seek there with Richard.
He had not returned in years.
"There," he said, pointing to a narrow passage behind the sitting room.
"That wall leads to a storage closet."
Monroe studied the plan.
"How many exits?"
"Three."
"Possibly four, if the old garden door still works."
She summoned the tactical supervisor.
I watched them whisper.
Then a question occurred to me.
"How did Richard know I was looking at the notebook?"
Everyone stopped.
I looked at Julian.
"Only three people knew."
"You."
"Me."
"And whoever pushed the photograph under the door."
Monroe's eyes narrowed.
"Someone was listening."
Julian turned toward the guest bedroom.
The detective immediately sent an officer to inspect it.
Ten minutes later, the officer returned holding a tiny electronic device inside a clear evidence bag.
It had been hidden beneath the bedside lamp.
"A wireless audio transmitter," he said.
Julian stared.
"Who installed it?"
"We don't know yet."
"But this room was prepared for Elena after the dinner."
I remembered Marcus telling the staff where I would be staying.
My mouth went dry.
"Marcus knew."
Monroe looked toward the doorway.
"Where is Mr. Bell now?"
Nobody answered.
The security office was empty.
His vehicle was gone.
And every recording from the west wing had been deleted from the main server.
At 2:42 a.m., officers entered the old sitting room.
It was empty.
The portrait still hung above the fireplace.
A wooden chair stood beneath it.
On the floor lay a piece of beige fabric.
My mother's coat had been cut.
Monroe examined the room.
Julian remained beside the doorway.
I was allowed only as far as the hall.
Then an officer called out.
"Detective."
He was standing beside the portrait.
"There are marks on the wall."
Monroe approached.
The portrait was removed.
Behind it was a narrow metal door.
Julian stared.
"I didn't know that existed."
The door had no handle.
Only a small electronic keypad.
Monroe called a technician.
While he worked, I noticed something written in pencil along the lower edge of the frame.
Three numbers.
417\.
I knew them.
They were the last three digits of the old bank account my father used for my college savings.
I stepped closer.
"Try four-one-seven."
The technician looked at Monroe.
She nodded.
He entered the numbers.
Nothing happened.
Then I remembered my father's habit.
Whenever he gave me a three-digit number, he added the year I was born.
1999\.
"Try 4171999."
The lock clicked.
The door opened.
Behind it was a small climate-controlled room.
Shelves lined the walls.
There were old files, hard drives, and several locked metal cases.
A desk stood beneath a single lamp.
On the desk lay a photograph of my father.
He was smiling.
Beside him stood Edward Ashford.
And between them was a young boy.
Richard.
At the bottom of the photograph, someone had written:
The first lie began here.
Monroe ordered the room documented before anyone touched the contents.
Julian leaned against the doorway.
"My father had a secret room."
I looked at the photograph again.
"Maybe it wasn't your father's room."
"What?"
I pointed to the initials carved into the wooden desk.
D.M.
Daniel Morales.
My father.
Julian stared at them.
Then a faint ringing sound came from inside the room.
An old landline telephone sat beneath the desk.
The detective picked it up.
"Detective Monroe."
A man answered.
I couldn't hear his first words.
But I saw Monroe's expression change.
She switched the call to speaker.
Richard's voice filled the room.
"Hello, brother."
Julian stepped forward.
"Where is Teresa?"
Richard laughed.
"Always worried about someone else's family."
"Where is she?"
"Alive."
"For the moment."
Julian clenched his fists.
"What do you want?"
"Something Father should have given me seven years ago."
"What?"
Richard paused.
Then he said, "The original Ashford family trust."
Julian frowned.
"That trust is in the company archives."
"No, Julian."
"The one in the archives is a forgery."
The room went silent.
Richard continued.
"And if you knew what the real document says, you would understand why Victoria couldn't afford to let you live."
The line disconnected.
Two minutes later, the desk's computer screen turned on by itself.
May you like
One sentence appeared.
THE WRONG SON INHERITED EVERYTHING.
