Chapter 9 - THE ROOM THAT NEVER EXISTED
Noah draped Rebecca’s coat over one arm as if it belonged to him.
It was dark green wool with a broken silver button near the collar. I had searched for it after her funeral because our mother wanted to bury Rebecca in it.
The police told us it had probably gone into the ocean with the car.
“Where did you get that?” I asked.
Noah looked at Evelyn.
“You’ve worked for my family for thirty-two years. Don’t throw that away for her.”
Evelyn stepped closer to me.
“I worked for your father,” she said. “You only inherited his last name.”
Noah’s expression hardened.
He reached for the ledger, but I pulled it against my chest.
“The building is closed to you, Vivian.”
“I still own twenty-three percent of Ashford Heritage.”
“Shares without board authority are paper.”
“And a dead woman’s coat?”
For one second, Noah’s confidence cracked.
Then he smiled.
“Rebecca left it here after a party. I found it during renovations.”
“Nine years later?”
“I don’t owe you an explanation.”
“No. You owe one to the police.”
He moved between us and the service elevator.
“You’re already being investigated for embezzlement. Walk into a police station carrying an antique ledger, and I’ll say you fabricated it.”
Evelyn quietly pressed something into my palm.
The brass key.
Noah saw the movement.
He lunged, but Evelyn shoved a laundry cart into his path. I ran through the linen corridor, pushed open the stairwell door and climbed toward the eighth floor.
Rooms 812 and 816 were separated by a decorative wall covered in framed photographs of the hotel’s founders.
The wall looked solid.
But the brass key fit inside a tiny keyhole hidden behind one of the frames.
A narrow door opened inward.
Cold air touched my face.
Room 814 had no windows, no bed and no hotel furniture. Only a long table, an unplugged desk lamp and metal filing cabinets built into the walls.
Someone had recently removed most of the files.
One cabinet remained locked.
The brass key opened it.
Inside were employee pension statements, renovation invoices and copies of wire transfers to Hartwell Advisory—the company Camille claimed she had sold five years earlier.
At the bottom lay a photograph.
Rebecca stood inside the room beside Noah.
She was pointing at the documents while he stared at her with naked fear.
On the back, she had written:
Vivian, if he says my death was an accident, ask who was driving the second car.
Footsteps stopped outside the hidden door.
May you like
Then Camille’s voice came through the wall.
“Noah, she found the room.”
