Chapter 4 – THE DRAWING OF THE RED COAT

“What are you talking about?” Julian demanded, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.

Victor pocketed the forged custody order. He didn’t look at Julian anymore. He looked at Celeste.

“Tell him, Celeste,” Victor coaxed, his tone dripping with venom. “Tell your fiancé why you were really sending the boy away.”

Celeste backed up against the dining table, her hands gripping the edge so hard her knuckles were white.

“Julian, he’s crazy. Make the police take him away.”

The officers exchanged uncertain glances, unsure of who was actually in charge of this chaotic scene.

“Nobody moves,” Julian ordered. He looked at his son.

Theo was still clutching my apron, his small body trembling.

“Victor,” Julian said carefully. “Rachel died in a tragic accident. It was raining. Her car skidded off the bridge.”

“That’s the police report,” Victor countered. “But Rachel wasn’t alone on that bridge, was she?”

He pointed a finger at Celeste.

“Rachel had just found out about the offshore accounts. The money Celeste was siphoning from the charity foundation to fund her own lifestyle. Rachel was on her way to tell you, Julian.”

Julian turned slowly toward Celeste. “Is that true?”

“No!” she shrieked. “It’s a lie!”

“Then why did I find this?” Victor reached into his coat and pulled out a small, waterproof flash drive. “I found it sewn into the lining of Rachel’s winter coat. The one returned from the morgue. It has every bank transfer. Every stolen dollar.”

The guests were entirely silent now, trapped in a nightmare of high-society crime.

“If you had proof of embezzlement, why come for my son?” Julian asked.

“Because embezzlement isn’t murder,” Victor said coldly.

The word hung in the air, suffocating and heavy.

“Rachel’s brakes were cut, Julian,” Victor said, his voice breaking for the first time. “And the mechanic who supposedly inspected her car the week before? He just bought a two-million-dollar condo in Miami. Paid in cash by a shell company owned by Celeste’s father.”

Celeste let out a choked sob. “You can’t prove any of that!”

“I don’t have to,” Victor said softly. He finally looked down at Theo. “Because Theo remembers.”

I looked down at the boy clinging to my legs.

Theo had been in the backseat that night. He had miraculously survived with only a broken arm, pulled from the wreckage by a passing driver before the car caught fire. He had never spoken about the crash. The therapist said it was trauma-induced amnesia.

“Theo?” Julian knelt down, ignoring the police, ignoring Victor, ignoring the forty people watching.

He was just a father looking at his terrified son.

“Buddy,” Julian whispered. “Do you remember the bridge?”

Theo squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head frantically.

“Don’t push him!” I warned, stepping in front of Julian.

But Theo reached into his pocket. His small, trembling hand pulled out the little wooden train.

Then, he reached into his other pocket.

He pulled out a folded piece of construction paper.

He didn’t hand it to his father. He handed it to me.

“Miss Alma,” Theo whispered, tears spilling down his cheeks. “I didn’t want to tell.”

I unfolded the paper.

It was a child’s crayon drawing.

It showed a black car against a blue bridge. Inside the car were two stick figures—one big, one small.

But standing outside the car, pushing the door closed just before it tipped over the edge, was a third figure.

The figure was scribbled furiously in bright, angry red crayon.

I looked up at Celeste.

She was wearing a fitted red gown tonight.

“Theo,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “Who is the lady in the red coat?”

Theo looked at Celeste, his lower lip trembling.

“She told me if I said her name, she would hurt Miss Alma.”

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