Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 66732 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 222(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66732 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 222(@300wpm)
“I need to get her.” The leg of my chair screeches as I push it back and stand.
“Wait, Silas. There’s more,” Nigella says.
I shake my head. “You can tell me later. I need to go get her. Where is she?” She hesitates. I slam my fist down on the table. “Where the fuck is she?”
“I don’t know, Silas. We think they took her somewhere in Boston. Hamish is on his way—”
“Get him on the phone.”
“You need to see this first, Silas.”
“Nothing else matters.” I say through clenched teeth.
“I think it does. I think it’s important. The box. Where did you get it?”
“Why?”
“Just where did you get it?”
“At her house. I remember her father had hidden something years ago. The house, is it gone?” I ask because I haven’t had access to the news.
She nods. “Burnt completely down. Arson. The video footage of you, it’s there, but there’s more that’s been conveniently destroyed. The gist of it is the house burst into flames about half an hour after you left.”
“Jesus.”
“The box you got out, it’s a good, strong box. Wouldn’t have survived a fire, but strong. Drilled the lock out to open it.”
I watch as she opens the envelope I recognize and takes out the contents.
“Two drivers’ licenses. One belonging to Horatio Hayes and one to Claire Carlisle-Bent.” I pick them up, glance at Claire’s. That was Ophelia’s mother’s name. She can’t be more than seventeen, eighteen here. She’s smiling but there’s a drawn look to her, a shadow in her eyes. Horatio, I recognize, even though he’s much younger here. According to the licenses, they’re both from Houston, Texas. Not New England where he’d always said he was from.
She then sets out newspaper clippings and I find myself resuming my seat as I take in the headline: Daughter of Oil Tycoon Kidnapped.
Confused, I glance at Nigella, who waits patiently.
I pick up the first article and skim the contents.
“What is this?” I ask as I read.
Claire Carlisle-Bent, daughter of Gordon Carlisle-Bent, sole heiress of the oil magnate, had been kidnapped by Horatio Hayes, a member of the staff. The articles all mention the anonymous tip that Claire Carlisle-Bent may have been pregnant.
According to Gordon Carlisle-Bent, the alleged pregnancy was nonsense, rumors started by gossip mongers. He also claimed his daughter had planned on ending her relationship with the boy whose mother served as kitchen help, and whom he had, out of the goodness of his heart, employed doing odd jobs. He’d been furious, as can be expected, when he learned about his daughter’s relationship with the boy.
My brain is processing as I skim more articles published over a span of a few months mentioning how the daughter of one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in the country could simply disappear. They all suggested she was likely dead, killed by the violent boyfriend.
I look at the dates, do the math. Those pregnancy rumors, they weren’t rumors, no matter what Gordon Carlise-Bent would have the world think.
I glance up at Nigella. “She was pregnant. The timeline adds up. I’m guessing her father found out and maybe he wanted her to terminate? I can’t imagine having a grandchild by staff would be something he’d want. Maybe that’s why they ran away?”
“Did they run away, though? Can you be certain she wasn’t forced?”
I find I can’t.
She hands me a final envelope, this one different, wrinkled and worn like it’s been opened a thousand times.
Without a word, I take it, slip the single sheet of paper out. It’s a hand-written letter in shaky script. The ink has smeared in blotches, and I can almost imagine whoever wrote it or whoever read it crying, big tears dropping heavy onto the page.
I’m sorry. I can’t look at her. I can’t stand it. I’m sorry.
Claire
It’s dated and I recognize the date. Ophelia’s birthday. She’d have been exactly one year old.
“I’m guessing Claire’s drowning wasn’t accidental.” Nigella says and hands over the obituary. Claire Hart, age eighteen, cause of death drowning. The dates coincide.
“I don’t understand,” I say, trying to make sense of it all. Hart kidnapped his pregnant girlfriend?
“There’s more but I think these are the most significant pieces. Apart from these two.”
I take what she’s holding out. “What this?”
“Ophelia Hart’s blood type is B. Claire’s was A. Horatio Hart is type O.”
She must see my confusion.
“He’s not her biological father. She’d have to have type A or O if he were her father. I’m not a scientist but this is pretty easily searchable, and I found some medical reports that caught my eye, so I looked into it.”
“Horatio Hart isn’t her father?” I finally say.
“No. It’s impossible for him to be.”
“Who is then?”
She shrugs.
“Her mother’s family, who are they? Carlisle-Bent rings a bell.”
“The Carlisle-Bent family made their fortune in oil and gas in the early 1900s. They were one of the wealthiest families in the United States at some point. Still have quite the fortune, although it’s nothing compared to what it used to be. Claire’s father is Gordon Carlisle-Bent. He’s now nearly seventy years old and in ailing health.”