Chapter 9 - The Key Beneath the Music
For years, Andrew Vaughn had presented his home as a sanctuary of perfect order.
Every book stood level on its shelf.
Every piece of artwork had been chosen by a designer.
Every decorative object had a story, carefully rehearsed for dinner guests.
The music box stood in his office beside a framed photograph of him receiving a medical award.
I had always thought it was harmless.
Now I understood why he kept it within reach.
Detective Brooks asked me to describe the box in detail.
Dark walnut.
Brass hinges.
A small scratch on the left side.
A melody that sounded like a lullaby.
I remembered the hidden compartment because I'd accidentally dropped the box while cleaning.
The false bottom had shifted.
A brass key had fallen out.
Andrew had entered the room seconds later.
I'd never seen him move so quickly.
He'd grabbed my wrist, demanded to know what I'd seen, and insisted that I had damaged an irreplaceable family heirloom.
I had apologized for nearly an hour.
He hadn't hit me that day.
He hadn't needed to.
The fear had lasted longer.
“Where is the box now?” Detective Brooks asked.
“In his office.”
“Can you provide the address?”
I did.
Then she asked whether I had any reason to believe the office had been altered since the gala.
“No.”
But as soon as I said it, I remembered something.
Andrew had called his housekeeper at least twice during the evening.
I'd heard him.
I told Brooks.
She thanked me.
Then she ended the call.
I sat on the edge of the couch and tried to stop shaking.
The apartment was quiet.
Outside, New York moved through an ordinary afternoon.
Cars.
Sirens.
People carrying shopping bags.
Somewhere, children were being picked up from school.
The world had not stopped because my life had fallen apart.
That seemed cruel.
Then strangely comforting.
I wasn't the center of the universe.
I didn't have to hold everything together.
At five, Ethan arrived.
He had called first.
Asked whether I wanted company.
I'd said yes.
When I opened the door, he stood in the hallway wearing dark jeans and a navy sweater.
No tailored suit.
No security entourage.
Just Ethan.
He held a paper bag.
“I brought dinner.”
I looked inside.
Soup.
Bread.
And two enormous chocolate cookies.
I smiled.
“You remembered.”
“Your favorite bakery.”
I looked up.
“How?”
“You always ordered from there on Fridays.”
I felt a strange warmth spread through my chest.
For almost a year, I had memorized his preferences.
Black coffee.
No sugar.
Extra lemon in sparkling water.
A dislike of unnecessary meetings.
A habit of touching his watch when he was thinking.
I hadn't realized he'd been paying attention to mine.
We ate at the small kitchen table.
For twenty minutes, we didn't discuss Andrew.
We talked about ordinary things.
The disastrous presentation Ethan had given to investors when he was twenty-four.
My mother's stubborn refusal to replace her ancient refrigerator.
The time I accidentally booked Ethan into the wrong hotel in Chicago and he ended up spending the night beside a convention of professional magicians.
He admitted he'd enjoyed it.
I laughed so hard my ribs hurt.
Then I stopped.
Pain flashed across my face.
Ethan immediately set down his spoon.
“Are you okay?”
“I'm fine.”
The words came automatically.
He looked at me.
I looked back.
Then I sighed.
“No.”
He waited.
“My ribs hurt when I laugh.”
His expression softened.
“Thank you for telling me.”
I stared at him.
Such a simple sentence.
But it meant everything.
We finished dinner.
Then I asked him about Benjamin.
He was quiet for a while.
Finally, he said, “He loved trains.”
I smiled faintly.
“Really?”
“He had a collection of tiny wooden trains.”
Ethan looked toward the window.
“He used to line them up across the living room floor and announce that everyone had to buy a ticket.”
“What kind of tickets?”
“Whatever he could find. Receipts. Old envelopes. Pieces of paper.”
I laughed softly.
“He sounds wonderful.”
“He was.”
His voice tightened.
“When he died, I thought the world had made a mistake.”
I reached across the table.
Then stopped.
I didn't know whether I should touch him.
Ethan noticed.
He turned his hand palm-up.
An invitation.
Not a demand.
I placed my fingers in his.
He held them gently.
“I started the foundation because I wanted children like him to have a chance,” he said.
“I know.”
“I trusted Mercer.”
His jaw tightened.
“I trusted the institution that treated Benjamin.”
“You couldn't have known.”
“Maybe.”
I squeezed his hand.
“Ethan.”
He looked at me.
“You told me to stop blaming myself.”
A faint smile touched his face.
“Yes.”
“Then you have to follow your own advice.”
He laughed softly.
“Apparently, I hired a very demanding assistant.”
“The best.”
His smile deepened.
For one beautiful moment, the room felt peaceful.
Then his phone rang.
Margaret.
He answered.
His expression changed almost immediately.
“What?”
A pause.
“When?”
Another pause.
“Was anyone hurt?”
I sat upright.
Ethan closed his eyes.
“All right. Keep me informed.”
He ended the call.
“What happened?”
He looked at me.
“Police executed a search warrant at Andrew's residence.”
My heart began pounding.
“Did they find the box?”
“Yes.”
Relief flooded through me.
“And the key?”
He hesitated.
“No.”
My stomach dropped.
“What?”
“The compartment was empty.”
I stared at him.
“No. I saw it.”
“I believe you.”
“It was there.”
“Ava.”
“Andrew must've taken it.”
Ethan nodded slowly.
“Possibly.”
He looked at his phone again.
“There's something else.”
“What?”
“The music box was missing its lower panel.”
I frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“Investigators found a second concealed space beneath the first.”
I stared at him.
“A second compartment?”
“Yes.”
“What was inside?”
Ethan hesitated.
“An old photograph.”
I leaned forward.
“Of what?”
He looked at me with an expression I couldn't understand.
“Two boys standing outside the hospital.”
My heart began pounding.
“Who?”
“One of them was Andrew.”
I waited.
“And the other?”
Ethan's voice grew quiet.
“Richard Mercer.”
I frowned.
“Mercer is much older than Andrew.”
“I know.”
“Then how could—”
Ethan turned his phone toward me.
The photograph showed a teenage boy beside a much younger child.
The older boy was Richard Mercer.
I recognized his distinctive eyes.
The younger boy had the unmistakable face of Andrew Vaughn.
Written across the bottom were five words.
Richard and Andrew - Summer 1989.
My mouth went dry.
“They knew each other as children.”
“Yes.”
“But Andrew told everyone he met Mercer during his residency.”
Ethan nodded.
“And according to the records Margaret located, that's not the only thing he lied about.”
I stared at him.
“What else?”
May you like
He swallowed.
“Andrew Vaughn isn't his original name.”
