Get that filthy creature out of my nursery right now, or I'll have the groundskeeper shoot it, my daughter-in-law, Victoria, snarled as I brought home a bleeding Golden Retriever I had just pulle...
I met Victoria’s cold stare, my hand tightening on the baby album still clutched at my side. The storage unit key was in my pocket, burning against my thigh.
“That key isn’t going anywhere,” I said, my voice low and firm. “Not until I understand what happened to Claire.”
Victoria’s jaw tightened, a flush rising on her pale cheeks. Julian, still reeling, looked up, a silent plea in his eyes. He hated confrontation.
The two security officers shifted, their presence a silent threat. I ignored them.
“This isn’t over, Margaret,” Victoria hissed, before turning sharply and storming away, her security detail following.
Later that morning, I moved Buster, the Golden Retriever, into my private wing of the mansion. I called my head of security, hiring two additional guards to monitor my corridors and the nursery, ensuring Victoria had no access. Leo, my grandson, seemed to understand, a quiet comfort settling over him as Buster took up residence under his small bed.
The dog, meanwhile, had found his favorite spot again, curled protectively beneath the $35,000 antique crib in the sealed-off nursery.
My next step was Arthur Pendelton, the former groundskeeper. He had abruptly retired four years ago, shortly after Claire’s disappearance, a detail that had always nagged at me. My assistant found him in a local hospice center, a quiet facility on the outskirts of Newport.
The hospice smelled of antiseptic and wilting flowers. Arthur, now 68, was frail, his skin papery thin, his once-strong hands trembling as he reached for the glass of water on his bedside table. A doctor had told me he was in the advanced stages of pancreatic cancer.
I introduced myself, sitting beside his bed. His eyes, though clouded with age and illness, held a spark of recognition.
“Mrs. Aldrich,” he rasped, his voice weak. “It’s been a long time.”
I didn’t waste time. I pulled out my phone and showed him a photo of Buster, curled under Leo’s bed.
Arthur’s breath hitched. His eyes widened, and a single tear traced a path down his cheek.
“Buster,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “He came back.”
His lower lip quivered. He remembered the dog vividly. He had adored Buster.
“Arthur,” I said gently. “I need you to tell me what you know about the night Claire disappeared.”
He closed his eyes, his breathing growing shallow. A nurse quietly entered, checked his IV drip, and then left the room, giving us privacy.
When he opened his eyes again, they were filled with a profound sadness.
“I didn’t mean any harm, Mrs. Aldrich,” he began, his voice barely audible. “I was told… I was told it was an accident. A mistake.”
He struggled to sit up, but I pressed a hand gently to his shoulder.
“Take your time.”
“It was a rainy night, just like the microchip led you to,” he confessed, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I was called late. Victoria… Victoria found me. She was hysterical.”
He paused, a shudder running through his body.
“She said Claire had crashed her car. That she ran off. But she didn’t want the police involved.”
Arthur looked directly at me, his gaze firm despite his frailty.
“Victoria gave me fifty thousand dollars in cash, Mrs. Aldrich. Flimsy hundred-dollar bills, bundled with rubber bands.” He held up his trembling hand, mimicking the stack. “Fifty thousand dollars just to haul Claire’s silver sedan, the one with the driver’s side all dented in… to an old, abandoned wooden barn on the edge of your property. Said it would be ‘less of a mess’ for the family name.”
He started to sob, quiet, rattling sobs that shook his entire body.
“It was blood-spattered, Mrs. Aldrich. The driver’s side. And I covered it up. I never called the police. I just took the money and left.”
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