CHAPTER 3 THE VIDEO BEHIND THE WINE CELLAR DOOR
The woman who recorded Vanessa was named Olivia Grant.
She was one of Brent’s cousins, a twenty-two-year-old college student who had spent most of the engagement party filming videos for social media. She had captured decorations, speeches, champagne towers and guests dancing beneath the chandeliers.
She had also captured my cousin crushing a white tablet into my ginger ale.
Olivia had not noticed it at the time.
After hearing that I had been hospitalized, she reviewed her recordings. In the corner of one video, Vanessa stood behind the bar with my glass in her hand. She glanced over both shoulders, dropped powder into the drink and stirred it with a cocktail straw.
Twenty minutes later, another recording showed her following me toward the staircase.
Then she pushed me.
The evidence changed everything.
By noon, Vanessa had been arrested on charges of aggravated assault, drugging and evidence tampering. Brent was taken into custody for questioning regarding the break-in at my condo.
Aunt Marjorie was not arrested.
She told police she knew nothing.
From my hospital room, I watched local news footage of Vanessa being led from her mother’s house in handcuffs. Even then, she performed for the cameras.
“I didn’t push anyone!” she shouted. “My cousin is framing me because she’s jealous!”
Her engagement ring flashed as she raised her cuffed hands.
Brent followed ten minutes later with his head lowered.
I expected to feel vindicated.
Instead, I felt afraid.
Because the doctors still could not explain the older fracture in my skull.
The engagement-party video proved Vanessa had drugged me that night, but the sedative had not fully taken effect before the fall. It did not explain what had happened twelve days earlier at Grandmother’s memorial dinner.
Detective Ortiz returned that afternoon.
“Brent claims he only entered your condo because Vanessa told him you had stolen a family heirloom.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“I agree. He also claims he has no knowledge of anyone harming you at the memorial dinner.”
“Do you believe him?”
“No.”
She placed several photographs on my bedside table.
The first showed Aunt Marjorie’s house.
The second showed a narrow door beneath the main staircase.
“The door leads to a basement wine cellar,” Ortiz explained. “During our search, we found traces of blood on the concrete floor.”
My stomach tightened.
“Whose blood?”
“The lab is running it now. We also found a broken button from a navy cardigan.”
I looked at my mother.
At the memorial dinner, I had worn a navy cardigan.
My mother began crying before I did.
Detective Ortiz continued.
“There was a camera installed inside the wine cellar. The recording unit had been removed, but the camera was connected to Marjorie’s home network. Our digital team recovered several deleted files from cloud storage.”
“Did it record what happened to me?”
“We believe so.”
She hesitated.
“We need your consent before showing you.”
I wanted to say no.
I wanted to leave the missing hours buried inside my mind. But people had already used my silence against me. Every moment I could not remember had become a place for them to hide.
“Show me.”
Ortiz positioned her tablet where my mother and I could both see it.
The footage began at 9:18 p.m.
I was carried into the wine cellar by Brent and a man I did not recognize. My arms hung loosely. My head rolled against Brent’s shoulder.
Vanessa walked behind them.
She was laughing.
Aunt Marjorie entered last and shut the door.
My mother made a broken sound.
On the video, Brent lowered me into a wooden chair. Vanessa searched my pockets while the unidentified man held my head upright.
“Where is it?” Vanessa demanded.
“I told you she doesn’t have it,” Brent said.
“She has the key. Grandmother gave it to her.”
Marjorie stood near the door, wringing her hands.
“This has gone too far. Put her upstairs and tell everyone she felt sick.”
Vanessa spun toward her mother.
“You said Paige would sign whatever we put in front of her.”
“She was supposed to be drowsy, not unconscious.”
The unidentified man crouched in front of me.
“Sometimes the dosage hits people differently.”
I recognized his voice before I recognized his face.
Dr. Malcolm Voss.
He had been Grandmother’s private physician during the last six months of her life.
My heart began pounding against the monitor leads.
Voss slapped my cheek lightly.
“Paige. Wake up.”
My eyes fluttered open on the recording.
I mumbled something.
Vanessa leaned close.
“Where did you hide Grandmother’s key?”
I tried to lift my head.
“What key?”
Voss pulled a syringe from his coat pocket.
Marjorie stepped forward. “No more medication.”
“We need her coherent enough to speak,” he said.
“Then why are you injecting her?”
“Because she’s becoming agitated.”
I watched him press the needle into my arm.
The memory returned in fragments.
Cold concrete under my bare feet.
Vanessa’s perfume.
A man’s hand around the back of my neck.
A bright flash of pain.
On the video, I tried to stand.
Brent grabbed my shoulders.
I swung my arm and struck him in the mouth.
He cursed and shoved me.
My head hit the stone wall.
The crack echoed through the cellar.
My body collapsed.
For three full seconds, no one moved.
Then Marjorie screamed.
“You killed her!”
“She’s breathing,” Voss said, kneeling beside me.
Vanessa stared down at my motionless body.
Her expression held no fear.
Only frustration.
“Search her again.”
My mother turned away from the screen and sobbed.
I could not look away.
Voss checked my pupils.
“She may have a skull fracture.”
“Then call an ambulance,” Marjorie said.
“And explain why she’s full of sedatives?” Vanessa snapped. “No.”
Brent wiped blood from his lip.
“What do we do?”
Voss looked directly at the camera without seeming to notice it.
“We put her in the guest room. When she wakes up, tell her she became dizzy and fell asleep.”
“What if she remembers?”
“She won’t.”
The footage ended.
For a while, I heard only the rhythm of the cardiac monitor.
Detective Ortiz lowered the tablet.
“The blood in the cellar matches your blood type. We’re waiting for DNA confirmation. We have issued arrest warrants for Dr. Voss and Marjorie.”
My mother stared at the blank screen.
“My own sister watched them do that.”
“She tried to stop them,” I said automatically.
The moment the words left my mouth, I hated myself for saying them.
My mother looked at me through tears.
“She also helped carry you upstairs.”
She was right.
Marjorie had chosen her daughter’s freedom over my life.
Detective Reed entered the room.
“We located Dr. Voss’s vehicle at Charleston International Airport, but he wasn’t on any departing flight. His phone is off.”
“What about Marjorie?”
“She’s missing.”
My mother stood.
“What do you mean missing?”
“Her car is gone. Neighbors saw her leave thirty minutes before officers arrived.”
“Vanessa must have warned her.”
“Vanessa was already in custody.”
That meant someone else was still helping them.
Samuel Whitaker, Grandmother’s attorney, opened the leather case he had brought with him.
“The contents of Evelyn’s deposit box may tell us who.”
The key opened a box at First Atlantic Bank downtown. Because I was hospitalized, Mr. Whitaker obtained legal authorization to access it in the presence of police.
Inside were financial records, audio recordings, photographs and a sealed envelope addressed to me.
Mr. Whitaker handed me the letter.
The handwriting was unmistakably Grandmother’s.
My dearest Paige,
If you are reading this, then I was right to be afraid.
Marjorie and Vanessa believe my estate belongs to them. It does not. I discovered that money had been taken from my accounts and that my medication had been altered whenever I questioned the withdrawals.
I have changed my will.
You are now the primary beneficiary of the Hartwell Family Trust, including Hartwell House and controlling interest in the Hartwell Preservation Company.
Do not trust anyone who tells you I was confused.
I was not confused.
I was being poisoned.
My vision blurred.
Hartwell House was the historic mansion where Vanessa had held her engagement party.
The house she claimed Brent’s family had rented.
It had belonged to Grandmother.
And now, apparently, it belonged to me.
At the bottom of the letter, she had written one final sentence.
The person who helped them is someone your mother would never suspect.
Before I could show Detective Ortiz, my mother’s phone rang.
She answered.
“Hello?”
Aunt Marjorie’s voice came through the speaker, shaking and breathless.
“Claire, listen to me. I don’t have much time.”
“Where are you?”
“I made terrible mistakes. I thought Vanessa only wanted the key. I never knew they were going to hurt Paige.”
“You watched them!”
“I was afraid.”
“Of your own daughter?”
“No.”
Marjorie began crying.
“I was afraid of the man behind her.”
A sudden sound cracked through the phone.
Marjorie gasped.
Then a male voice spoke calmly.
May you like
“Tell Paige to bring the key to Hartwell House.”
The line went dead.
