Shattered Trust (Shattered #2)

by Magda Alexander

  “That’s a good idea,” she says, wrapping her arms around my waist. “I should have been more careful. Locked them up in that safe downstairs.”

  “What safe?”

  “The one in Gramps’s study.”

  “I didn’t notice a safe.”

  “It’s behind that hunting scene painting on the wall. I’m surprised you didn’t find it.”

  “Guess I must have missed it. We’ll need to open it and see what’s inside.”

  “Yes.” She wipes a tear from her cheek, and then a thought occurs to her. “Oh my God. What about the evidence room? Somebody could get into it.”

  “You have the only key to the door. But you should change the lock. I’ll get Stone to do it.”

  She shakes her head as if she can’t quite believe what I just said. “That’s the second time you’ve mentioned him. You buddies now?”

  “Not exactly. We talked. I know where he’s coming from now, so I understand him better.”

  “Good.” She strokes my chest. “Honestly, Steele, you have nothing to worry about. I barely have time for you. I wouldn’t dream of adding another man to the mix. Ménage à trois is not my thing.”

  I could tell her she’s missing out on something special. But I won’t. She’d be shocked to her very core if I did. Besides, no way I’d share her with another man. I’d cut off his dick first. I curl my hand around her nape and bend down to kiss her soft lips. “Thank you for saying that, mia bella donna.” My beautiful lady.

  Her cheeks bloom pink. “Oh, I like that.”

  “I’ll use it more often, then.” I turn over her hand and kiss her palm before I let go. “So how do you want to handle the journals?”

  Over the next three hours we go over the diaries, starting with the most recent ones and working our way back. When I get to the one from 1997, I make a rude discovery. A January entry details Marlena’s growing unhappiness with her husband.

  January 14, 1997

  He thinks I don’t know, but I’m fully aware he’s having an affair with his secretary. How cliché. The way they carried on at the holiday party sickened me—furtive brushes when they passed each other, longing glances across the room. What I hated most of all were the pitying looks from the staff at his lobbying firm. They all seem to know and feel sorry for me. I never loved him. I see that now. But what choice did I have but to marry him? I was pregnant with Madrigal, after all. Father would never have allowed me to have a child out of wedlock. He would have demanded an abortion. And I would never do that. No. I made the right choice. Even if my life is a living hell. I need to talk to someone, though, before I explode. It can’t be any of my society friends, not as much as they love to gossip. No. It will need to be someone I can trust not to talk. Mitch Brooks. We’ve been friends since high school, more than friends actually. At one time, I’d imagined myself in love with him. He works for Father’s law firm. I think I’ll give him a call.

  An entry several days later fills me with even more concern.

  January 28, 1997

  I met Mitch at a bar hotel. Bad idea as it turned out. After a couple of drinks, I broke down. Mitch being the perfect gentleman suggested we take our discussion somewhere private. Not wanting anyone to notice my misery, I agreed. He rented a room, and one thing led to another. God. It was so wrong. I’ve never cheated on Tom. And I don’t intend to do it again. But it felt so good. I realize now Mitch’s the man I’ve always loved. He’s always been there for me. It’s him I should have married. But it’s too late now. I’ve made my bed and I must lie in it. When we said good-bye, I knew it’d be the last time I’d confide in him.

  Had that tryst yielded consequences? Madison had been born almost nine months to the date. She resembles Mitch. How could I not have caught that? Their eyes are the same shade of brown, and they’re both blond, although Madison’s hair is closer to amber and Mitch’s a whiter shade of gold. Madison’s hair color could have been inherited from her grandfather. In his younger days, Holden’s hair shone gold. Tom’s eyes must have been brown, because as far as I know, he wasn’t suspicious of Madison’s coloring. Or maybe he found out, and that’s why he abused Marlena.

  “What’s wrong?” Madrigal asks.

  “Nothing.” I rise, stretch. “I’m gonna get something to drink. Do you need anything?”

  “A glass of water.”

  “Okay.” She’s so caught up in the journal she’s reading, she doesn’t bother to look up. Employing a sleight of hand I learned during my youth, I hide the journal in my jacket. I trot down the stairs and head for the private room she assigned to me. With my trusty penknife I cleanly cut the two pages from the journal. Her mother wrote sporadically, not following a set schedule, sometimes going as long as three weeks without making an entry. As long as she doesn’t refer to her rendezvous with Mitch again, it’ll be okay.

  After stopping in the kitchen to grab the water, I trot back upstairs to her room. Not five minutes later, the house fire alarm goes off. We run into the hallway, where we’re joined by Madison. All three of us dash down the stairs toward the source of the smoke. The kitchen. Half the staff’s in there already, along with Cristina and Hunter Stone.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  Hunter’s retrieving a burning pan from the oven using a pair of long-handled tongs.

  “Did Helga forget something in there?” Madison asks, a crestfallen expression on her face. “Hope it wasn’t dinner.”

  Helga rushes in from the back of the room and snaps her hands to her cheeks. “Ach, my oven!”

  Stone places the burning pan on top of the stove. “Where’s the fire extinguisher?”

  “Beneath the sink,” Hans exclaims. “I’ll get it.” He fetches it and lets it loose on the pan. Before long, the fire’s out.

  What remains of the funeral pyre is clearly not food but books.

  “My mother’s journals.” Madrigal turns a tearful face to me.

  “Can they be saved, Stone?” I ask.

  “Doubt it.” He’s right. They’re too far gone. Nothing legible will emerge from them.

  “Who could have done it?” Madrigal asks, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  “I don’t know. Did you see anyone, Stone?” The expression on the bodyguard’s face mirrors his name. He’s furious, although he hides it well.

  “No,” he says. “And the security camera won’t help us. Somebody covered it up.” He points to the equipment in the corner. A kitchen towel is draped over the lens.

  The staff glance suspiciously at one other. Can’t blame them. Someone in this room is the culprit. Someone who broke into Madrigal’s filing cabinet and stole the journals. Whoever did it took quite a risk. If he’d been caught, at the very least, he’d be fired. “Mr. Stone and I will look into this. Won’t we?”

  “Yes, Mr. Steele, we certainly will.” The look he sends me is cryptic. There’s something he knows, but clearly he’s not talking.

  Chapter 23

  Madrigal

  Again I must make do with what I have. My mother’s journals were a wonderful discovery that would have shed light on those important months leading up to her murder. But they’ve been burned beyond recognition, and only a pile of ashes remains.

  So I’m forced to take extreme measures.

  The house we lived in when I was a child still stands. I’d avoided going there in the last twelve years, but now? I have to, no matter the cost. I’ll need someone to accompany me. The question is who. It can’t be Steele, not as busy as he is setting up his new law firm and dealing with Mitch’s case. Charlie is busy with that as well, and Cristina’s at her internship. Madison’s not an option. So my only choice is Hunter Stone.

  We make the trek up I-66 to the Beltway and from there to the Arlington house I lived in until I was twelve. My grandfather never sold or rented the house, but took care of it as if my mother still lived there. The house lies empty, but the grounds have been landscaped, the grass mown, the hedges trimmed. The furniture inside is
exactly as I remember.

  “Where is your parents’ room?” Hunter asks.

  “Upstairs on the second floor. Maddy and I had our children’s suite on the third. Olivia lived with us up there.”

  “No other bedrooms on the second floor?”

  “Guest rooms. But as far as I know they were never used. Nobody stayed here other than the family. The servants had their own quarters in the back of the house.”

  “Strange.”

  “Not really. My mother and father were only children, and my grandfather had his own house. So no family members to visit.”

  When we get to my parents’ bedroom, I take a deep breath. I haven’t seen the inside of this room in over twelve years.

  Sensing my distress, Hunter steps back and allows me space and time to gather my courage. Finally, I grab the knob. It turns as easily as if it’s been oiled or kept in good repair all these years. Clearly, somebody’s taken care of it, and the orders could have only come from one person—my grandfather.

  I thrust open the door and step inside. Everything looks exactly the same. My parents’ king-sized bed in the center of the room. My mother’s vanity table with its tufted bench. A chest of drawers on the side, and the hope chest in front of the bed where my mother stashed the quilt at night when they slept. Now it covers the bed. Such happy colors. Turquoise and peach in a traditional wedding-ring pattern. She’d loved that quilt. So had I, thinking how well it symbolized their happy union. How very wrong I’d been.

  Like the furniture in the rooms below, the furniture here is dust-free and so is the carpet beneath our feet. Not even a ghost of a bloodstain remains. Had Gramps replaced the rug? More than likely. He’d want the place to remain exactly the way it’d been before my parents were killed. I wander to the vanity table and pick up a framed photograph. The four of us smiling at Christmas. Another one of my mother and father on their wedding day. She’d been so beautiful in her wedding gown.

  “You look like her,” Hunter whispers over my shoulder.

  “Yes.”

  I pick up another Christmas photo. This one includes the four of us plus Gramps and Mitch. While everyone’s staring into the camera, Mitch is looking at my mother. The longing on his face takes my breath away. Clearly, he loved her. Why hadn’t I figured that out? It makes perfect sense now that I think about it. She must have had some feelings for him as well since she insisted Gramps make him a co-trustee of the trusts he drew up for Madison and me.

  “What about friends? Didn’t you have sleepovers?”

  “No. My father never allowed it.” That should have been my first clue that something was wrong. My beautiful mother had gone from one control freak of a father to another in a husband. She should have married a man who truly loved her. Like Mitch. He never married. Was he happy to worship her from afar?

  My stomach churns at the myriad of possibilities this discovery creates. Where was Mitch the night of my parents’ murders? That question never came up as far as I know. It never seemed important back then. But now? At one time, he and my mother were close friends. Would she have turned to him, revealed her abuse? If she had, I doubt Mitch would have stood aside and allowed it to continue. He would have done something. Could he have walked in on them and found my mother dead? If he had, would he have killed my father? Seeing how the alarm had been turned off, he could have simply entered the house. Is that why Gramps manipulated Helga’s testimony? Because he knew Mitch had killed my father? Or maybe Gramps killed him himself?

  God, so many possibilities. I don’t dare mention this to Steele. Not with him having to deal with Mitch’s case right now. He’s bound to have a jaundiced view. I’ll need to figure things out on my own. And there’s only one way. To go directly to Mitch and ask him point-blank.

  As the thoughts whirl around in my head, I sway on my feet. My vision starts to waver.

  “Whoa!” Stone says, catching me by my elbow. “Are you okay? You look pale. Here. Sit. Put your head between your legs. I’ll get you some water.”

  I wait on the stuffed aquamarine chair in the corner of the room until he returns with a cold bottle of water.

  “How did you manage that?”

  “I keep a cooler in the back of my car. Before we left the house, I put the bottles and some ice packs inside.” He waits until I take a couple of sips before saying, “I think we should go.” His eyes register nothing but kindness and concern.

  “No. I’m not done yet.” Coming slowly to my feet, I test my ability to stand. When my knees support my weight, I walk toward the hallway, make a right, and climb the stairs to the third floor where my room and Maddy’s were located. Her tiny bed’s still there. It will never be slept on again. At least not by her. At some point, I’ll call Goodwill or the Salvation Army and donate most of the furniture. But only when I’m through with my investigation.

  I head toward the wall where Mom marked our heights. I find the one that recorded Madison’s at different ages. The mark for four shows she was forty inches tall. With Hunter trailing, I retrace our steps and walk to the hallway window that faces the backyard. It was there Madison spotted Gramps digging up Scruffy’s grave.

  “How tall would you have to be to reach the bottom of that window?”

  Hunter pulls out the tape I’d asked him to bring and measures the distance. “Forty inches.”

  “Could someone forty inches tall see into the backyard?”

  “No. Only the top of her head would reach the bottom of the window. She would have had to use a step stool.”

  We had one. She’d used it to open chest drawers too high for her. But when she told us about Gramps digging in the backyard the night of our parents’ murders, she’d never mentioned that detail. It’s entirely possible she forgot. Or maybe, just maybe, she dreamed the whole thing up.

  Chapter 24

  Trenton

  “Why did you leave the firm, Mitch?” I’ve come to the Loudoun County Detention Center to interview Mitch, but he’s not cooperating and stares stone-faced at me.

  “Do you want to be found guilty of first degree murder?” I ask.

  He relaxes into his chair, seemingly without a care in the world. “That’s not going to happen.”

  “How do you know?”

  His gaze reminds me of the one he used when I said something incredibly stupid during my youth. “They have to prove me guilty beyond a reasonable doubt.”

  “And you think they won’t be able to do that? You had means and opportunity!” I yell.

  “But no motive.” In contrast to my excited voice, his is a soft whisper.

  “How do you figure that, Mitch? You argued with Holden that very afternoon. He threw you out of his house. And that night? You were there to rescue Madrigal after he locked her in. How on earth is that not motive?”

  “First of all, I was with you most of that time. You jumped the fence to get inside. Not being as nimble as you, I remained outside. You’d taken very few steps before the shots went off. One wounded you. The other killed Holden. How on earth could I have traveled that distance and gotten into the house without you seeing me?”

  He’s right, damn it. It doesn’t make sense. But then it doesn’t make sense that he was charged with Holden’s murder either. The prosecution has something up their sleeve, and I don’t have a clue what it is. And Mitch stubbornly refuses to cooperate. Maybe if I take another tack, he’ll let something slip. “I saw somebody running toward the wall and climb the fence.”

  “And you think that was me? With my bad knee?” When he was younger, he’d injured his knee playing tennis. He’d undergone surgery to repair it, but it had never healed right. “Besides, he was running away from the house, and you yourself said the shots came almost on top of each other. So whoever that runner was, he didn’t kill Holden.”

  “You could have hired somebody to do it.”

  He comes upright, rattles the handcuffs chained to the table. “I wouldn’t—I’d never do such a thing.”

  No. If
he ever killed somebody, he’d do it himself, not pay someone to do it. Or would he? The more he stonewalls me, the more I think I don’t know him as well as I do.

  Regardless, I have to keep his trust in me if I’m to have any hope of getting the truth out of him. “I know you wouldn’t. But they can sell that theory to a jury.”

  “They can’t just throw out accusations without something to back it up. They’d need proof, which they won’t be able to get because I never did such a thing.” For a couple of seconds, air bellows in and out of his lungs, but gradually he gets his breathing under control. “How are the girls?”

  So he wants to change the subject. Okay. We’ll take a break from my interrogation. And even though he’s my own client, it is an interrogation. “Fine.” I fill him in on Madison’s doctor visit. “Madrigal’s handling her meds now. She seems pleased with Madison’s progress.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with Madison.” A rattle tells me he resents being handcuffed. If I were in his shoes, so would I. “Holden used drugs to control the women in his life.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He used them on Marlena whenever she disobeyed him, used them on his wife too. He liked his women docile.”

  “How do you know this, Mitch?”

  “Marlena told me. He’d slip drugs into his wife’s tea whenever she ‘stepped out of line.’ His phrasing.”

  God. The man was a monster. “And Marlena never reported him?”

  “Who would she report him to? She was fifteen. Nobody would believe her.”

  “He seems to have taken the same tack with Madrigal and Madison.” After her mother’s death, Madrigal suffered a breakdown, so he’d placed her in a mental health care facility for an entire year. With Madison he took a different direction. He’d asked his friend, Dr. Holcomb, to put Madison on a drug regimen for God only knew how long. “Madrigal is working with this new doctor to find out if Madison really needs all those pills.”