Jason ignored her.
“You know,” he said to me, “this house has a way of making people paranoid. Vivian sees enemies in every hallway. Ethan saw conspiracies in every boardroom. The first Claire saw ghosts in the archives.”
My hand tightened on the folder.
“And you?” I asked.
“I see patterns.”
“So do I.”
His eyes glinted.
For one dangerous second, the charming mask slipped—not into cruelty, not openly, but into calculation so precise it frightened me more.
“Then be careful which pattern you step into,” he said.
Vivian’s voice cut through the room. “Jason.”
He lifted both hands, smiling again. “Fine. I’ll go. Wouldn’t want to upset the bride.”
At the door, he paused and looked back at me.
“Oh, Claire?”
I said nothing.
“My condolences about your mother. Margaret was very good at keeping things where they belonged.”
Then he left.
The silence after him was enormous.
Vivian turned to me. “What did he mean?”
I could barely speak.
“He knew her.”
Vivian’s face darkened. “Apparently.”
Anna slipped out quietly, leaving Vivian and me alone.
For the first time, neither of us pretended control.
Vivian sat slowly across from me.
“You asked earlier why I chose you,” she said. “The truth is, I thought your name might provoke someone.”
I stared at her. “You used me as bait.”
“Yes.”
The honesty was so stark it stunned me.
“I should hate you.”
“You may.”
“I might.”
“Good. Hate keeps people alert.”
“No,” I said. “Fear does that. Hate just makes them stupid.”
Vivian looked at me for a long moment.
Then, unexpectedly, she laughed softly.
“Ethan would like you.”
I looked toward the bedroom door.
“He doesn’t know me.”
“No. But he has always admired people who correct me.”
The fragile humor faded quickly.
Vivian leaned forward, both hands on her cane.
“I did not know about your mother,” she said. “I swear that to you.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“Because if I had known Margaret Bennett worked in my archive, I would have found you years ago.”
The room stilled.
“Why?”
Vivian looked older again.
“Because the first Claire Bennett disappeared with a file that could have destroyed Jason’s father. And perhaps mine.”
My breath caught.
“Your son?”
“My younger son. Jason’s father. Richard Thornton.”
“I thought Richard died.”
“He did. Seven years ago. Heart attack, officially.”
“Officially?”
“In this family, official stories are often just expensive curtains.”
I sat back, overwhelmed.
Vivian continued. “Richard was brilliant, reckless, and morally flexible when it suited him. Ethan discovered irregularities in a biotech acquisition shortly before the first Claire vanished. Jason claimed Ethan was unraveling from stress. I believed Ethan. But belief without proof is a weak weapon.”
“And my mother had proof?”
“I don’t know. But Ethan seems to think so.”
I looked down at the folder.
Bennett was not name.
Code.
That night, I did not return to my assigned room.
I stayed in the chair beside Ethan’s bed.
Around three in the morning, the room was dark except for the dim glow of monitors. Ethan’s breathing was steady. Outside, rain tapped against the windows, turning the river invisible.
I must have dozed, because the sound that woke me was small.
Paper sliding.
My eyes opened.
Ethan was awake.
His hand had moved toward the folder on my lap.
“You need to rest,” I whispered.