The Castellano estate looked like a mausoleum.
I stood in the circular driveway, staring up at the limestone facade of the mansion I grew up in. Ivy crept along the walls, unchecked now that the groundskeepers had been dismissed. Several windows on the upper floors were dark, their shutters closed. The fountain in the center of the drive had been drained, leaving only a concrete basin filled with dead leaves.
Damien studied my face, his expression unreadable. He's been watching me carefully since we left the city, his silence more unnerving than his usual calculated questions. The drive up the Taconic had been tense, punctuated only by the low murmur of the radio and the occasional comment about traffic.
Now, standing in front of me, I felt the weight of his scrutiny like a physical thing.
"You're sure you want to do this?" he asked.
"I need to." I met his eyes, keeping my voice steady. "There are personal things here that I want before the estate is liquidated. Photos. My mother's jewelry. Things that matter to me."
It wasn't entirely a lie. I did want those things. But they weren't why I was here.
Damien nodded slowly. "I'll come with you."
"I would rather be alone." The words came out sharper than I intended, and I softened them with a wan smile. "It's going to be hard enough without an audience. Please."
For a moment, I thought he would refuse. His jaw tightened, and something flickered in his eyes, suspicion, or perhaps understanding. But then he exhaled and gestured toward the house.
"I'll wait downstairs. Take your time."
Relief flooded through me, so intense it made me dizzy. "Thank you."
Inside, the mansion was exactly as I remembered and completely foreign all at once.
The marble floors gleamed in the afternoon light filtering through tall windows. Crystal chandeliers hung from coffered ceilings, their prisms casting rainbows across white walls. But the furniture was shrouded in dust covers, transforming familiar shapes into ghostly lumps. The air smelled stale, tinged with the faint scent of lemon polish and something else decay, maybe, or just absence.
My footsteps echoed as I crossed the foyer. Damien had settled into one of the chairs in the sitting room, his phone already in hand. I could feel his gaze following me as I climbed the sweeping staircase, my hand trailing along the mahogany banister.
I idnt look back. I didnt give him any reason to follow.
On the second floor, I paused to orient myself. The hallway stretched in both directions, lined with closed doors. Family portraits hung on the walls generations of Castellanos staring down at me with varying degrees of severity. My own face appeared in one of the more recent paintings, captured at sixteen in a white dress, my expression solemn.
I turned left, toward the east wing.
My mother's study was at the end of the hall, tucked away behind a door that had remained locked since her death. My father had sealed it himself, telling me it was too painful to disturb. "She'll always be alive in that room," he would said, his voice breaking. "Let's leave her in peace."
At the time, I accepted his grief without question. Now, I wondered what he's really been protecting.
The door was locked, but I come prepared. I pulled a small set of lock picks from my purse purchased from a hardware store in Brooklyn, along with a YouTube tutorial I had watched three times and knelt in front of the brass knob.
My hands shook as I inserted the tension wrench.
Breathe. Focus.
The lock was old, simpler than I expected. After a few fumbling attempts, I felt the pins align. The mechanism clicked, and the door swung open with a faint creak.
The study was exactly as my mother had left it.
Afternoon light slanted through gauzy curtains, illuminating a space frozen in time. The mahogany desk sat near the window, its surface still cluttered with papers and a half-empty cup of tea. Bookshelves lined three walls, filled with leather-bound volumes and framed photographs. A plush armchair sat in the corner, a cashmere throw draped over one arm.
My throat tightened.
I closed the door behind me and moved to the desk. The papers on top were mundane bills, correspondence, a half-finished crossword puzzle. But the drawers yielded more. I pulled them open one by one, sifting through files and folders, my pulse quickening with each discovery.
In the bottom drawer, under a stack of unused stationery, I found a leather-bound desk calendar from 2017.
I flipped it open, my fingers trembling. The pages were filled with my mother's elegant handwriting appointments, reminders, notes to herself. Most of it was ordinary: Lunch with Catherine, 12:30. Elena's recital, 7 PM. Call the caterer re: fundraiser.
But in the weeks leading up to her death, the entries changed.
October 3: Meeting RE: urgent matter. Private.
October 10: Lawyer - confidential. Bring documents.
October 17: Must speak with V about the past. Can't wait any longer.
October 20: Call M. He needs to know the truth.
I turned the page. The final entry was dated October 31, 2017 three days before my mother died.
It's time. I can't live with this anymore.
I set the calendar aside and continued searching. In a cardboard box shoved under the desk, I found newspaper clippings dozens of them, yellowed and brittle with age. I spread them across the floor, my eyes scanning the headlines.
"Chemical Spill Contaminates Local Water Supply."
"Company Fined for Environmental Violations."
"Community Outrage Over Corporate Cover-Up."
None of the articles identified specific companies or incidents. Some had been heavily highlighted in yellow marker, others bore notes in the margins my mother's handwriting, small and hurried. But the notes were cryptic, fragments that made no sense out of context.
"V knew. He approved."
"How many others?"
"Can't let this continue."
My hands shook as I gathered the clippings. What had my parents been involved in? Some kind of corporate scandal? Environmental crimes?
I kept digging. In another box, I found financial records bank statements, wire transfer receipts, copies of checks. My eyes widened as I scanned the numbers. In the weeks before her death, my mother had moved hundreds of thousands of dollars to offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands. The transactions were labeled with vague descriptors: "Consulting fees." "Charitable donation." "Personal loan."
None of it made sense. My mother had never been secretive about money. She's been meticulous, organized, transparent. This is the work of someone desperate to hide something.
My gaze fell on a manila envelope tucked between two ledgers. I opened it with trembling fingers and pulled out a single sheet of paper a letter, half-written, addressed to me.
My darling girl,
If you're reading this, it means I couldn't tell you in person. There are things about our family that I can no longer live with. Your father and I made choices years ago that I thought I could forget, but the past has a way of demanding payment.
I'm so sorry for what you're about to learn. Know that everything I do is to protect you.
I love you more than life itself.
- Mama
The letter was dated October 21, 2017. One week before the accident.
I read it again, then a third time, my vision blurring with tears. My mother knew. She had known she was in danger, or at least that something terrible was coming. And she tried to warn me.
But warn me about what?
I folded the letter carefully and slipped it into my purse, along with the calendar, the clippings, and a handful of the financial records. I worked quickly, my ears straining for any sound of Damien approaching. But the house remained silent, save for the creak of old wood and the faint hum of wind against the windows.
I was just closing the last drawer when I heard footsteps in the hallway.
I froze. The footsteps paused outside the door.
"Elena?"
Damien's voice, low and questioning.
I shoved the remaining documents back into the box and stood, smoothing my blouse. "I'm here. Just... looking through some things."
The door opened, and Damien stepped inside. His eyes swept the room, taking in the desk, the open drawers, the faint shimmer of dust in the air. His expression was calm, but I could see the calculation behind it.
"Find what you were looking for?" he asked.
"Some photos." I gestured vaguely toward the bookshelf, where framed pictures of me and my mother smiled down at us. "And my mother's jewelry box. It's in the bedroom."
"That's all?"
I met his gaze, forcing myself to hold it. "That's all."
Damien didn't respond immediately. He stepped further into the room, his hands in his pockets, and studied the space with an air of idle curiosity. But I knew better. He was cataloging everything the papers on the desk, the boxes under it, the faint trail of dust I disturbed.
"This room," he said finally. "Your father kept it locked."
"Yes."
"Why?"
My chest tightened. "He said it was too painful to disturb. That he wanted to keep it exactly as she left it."
"And you believed him?"
"I did," I said quietly. "At the time."
Damien turned to look at me, his expression unreadable. "And now?"
I didn't answer. Couldn't answer. Because the truth was, I didn't know what to believe anymore.
After a moment, Damien nodded toward the door. "Let's go. You've been up here long enough."
The drive back to the city was silent.
I sat with my purse clutched in my lap, the stolen documents pressing against my ribs like a guilty secret. I stared out the window, watching the trees blur past, my mind racing.
What did you do, Mama? What did you and Papa do?
Beside me, Damien kept his eyes on the road. But I could feel his attention on me, heavy and persistent, like a weight I couldn't shake.
"You're sure you didn't find anything important?" he asked, his tone casual.
"Just some photos and jewelry," I said smoothly. "Nothing important."
"Nothing important," Damien repeated. He glanced at me, his expression neutral. "Good."
But the way he said it the faint edge in his voice told me he didn't believe me at all.
I turned back to the window, my reflection staring back at me in the glass. Behind it, the Castellano estate receded into the distance, swallowed by trees and shadows.
And somewhere in the silence between us, the truth waited, coiled and patient, ready to strike.