Chapter Four
CHAPTER FOUR
The tall iron gates swing open, and I gently press down on my gas pedal, easing along the curving private road toward the Barclay estate in Potomac, Maryland. This historic Colonial and its twenty acres of land were purchased for $12 million, according to public records. And that was before the Barclays renovated the mansion and added a reclaimed-wood barn and two-story shed.
The property is in both Ian and Beth Barclay's names, but Beth's inherited fortune made the buy possible.
I take another swig of hazelnut coffee from my travel mug. I feel a bit off my game—I didn't sleep well last night after Marco's news—and I need to be sharp.
As of today, I'm officially the best interest attorney for Rose Barclay.
It's time to meet my newest client.
I crane my neck as I approach the house, trying to glimpse the area where the nanny was pushed—or fell. But my view is blocked by a big excavator parked by the side of the house, its giant metal claw waiting to smash and grab.
I shift my gaze to the house. It's like something from a place time forgot, with its gray-green serpentine-stone construction and wide front porch. The house is ringed by sprawling oak and cedar trees, but not a single fallen branch or brown patch mars the emerald expanse of lawn. Lush blue hydrangea bushes, with flower clusters as big as bowling balls, line the beds surrounding the front porch.
I park my Jeep in front of the garage and double-check that I have everything I need. My phone is fully charged and has a good camera, since I never know when I'll need to document something. In my shoulder bag I've tucked my laptop and a new yellow legal pad. My cherished Montblanc pen—a gift from Marco—is in an interior pocket.
I step out and inhale the clean air. It's hard to believe this place is less than thirty minutes from the hustle and grime of DC. Instead of the rush of traffic and bleating of horns, all I hear is birdsong.
I climb the porch steps and press my finger to the bell. Beth Barclay opens the door a moment later, like she was hovering nearby.
Police never officially deemed her a suspect in the murder. But I can't help assessing her ballerina-lean, five-foot-nine frame. Strong enough to push her petite young nanny through the fragile single-pane glass of a hundred-year-old window?
Absolutely.
"Ms. Hudson?" she asks, even though I gave my name at the gate intercom.
"Call me Stella." I extend my hand.
She takes it. Her grip is firm.
"Welcome. I'm Beth."
She has the same pale skin, delicate features, and red hair as her daughter. But the years have sloughed away some of the vibrancy of Beth's coloring.
I step across the entryway and feel my eyes involuntarily widen.
It's as if I've landed in another time.
From the narrow-planked, dark wood floors to the steel-gray steam radiators and pocket doors with skeleton keyholes, it's as if this house has been perfectly preserved for a century, waiting for the Barclays to move in.
Most major renovations of old homes involve tearing down walls to create an open floor plan and using architectural tricks to bring in light and flow.
The Barclays didn't do any of that. They went backward in time, not forward.
The floor is slightly sloped, and the ceilings are low. The hallway is papered in a flowery ivory pattern, and the console table looks like an antique, with its rickety legs and brass fixtures. Above it hangs a watercolor in an ornate gold frame that could have come off the wall of a museum.
"Would you care for some coffee, or perhaps sparkling water?" Beth offers.
Despite all she has been through—a double betrayal, a death in her home, a public scandal, and a looming divorce—her manners are impeccable, her voice soft and cultured. She wears slim-fitting, camel-colored pants and a cream sweater with a scarf that looks like vintage Herm è s knotted around her neck. But I can read the deep strain in her eyes, and in the faint lines around her mouth.
Beth looks like a woman on the brink—of an eruption or a collapse. Maybe both.
I shake my head. "No thanks."
"So." Beth's hands twist together. "I'm not quite sure how this works."
I smile in a way that I hope reassures her. "All I need to do today is meet Rose. You can remain with us the whole time."
Beth doesn't look happy. Then again, most people aren't when faced with a lawyer who may decide the best thing for their child is to have minimal contact with them.
"I'm going to be around a lot during the next few weeks, so it's important Rose feels comfortable with me," I continue. My job requires me to assess everything in Rose's world and get multiple perspectives from people she knows before I give the court my custody recommendation.
"I understand." Beth nods toward the staircase, with its intricately carved, thick wooden banister. "She's in her room."
"Just one question first. How much does Rose know about the divorce?"
"She's aware her father and I are divorcing, and that we both want her to live with us."
I can't help thinking that's a huge emotional burden to place on the shoulders of a small child.
As I follow Beth to the stairs, I pause and peer into a formal living room to my left. Furniture is grouped around a simple brick fireplace—it looks like another original feature of the house—and a large black piano awaits, sheet music resting on the ledge above its keys. Rose plays, I remember. She's supposed to be remarkably good for her age. There's a silver tea set on the coffee table, and the rug is woven in dark blue and maroon shades. The room feels sterile, as if it has been staged but not truly lived in.
Something else feels off about this house, but I can't put my finger on it. There's a heaviness to the air, as if gravity is somehow stronger within the confines of these walls. Maybe the rage and turmoil and pain swirling around are affecting me.
We climb the stairs, the hundred-year-old wood creaking under our weight. Rising in symmetry with each step is a series of photographs of Rose, from infancy through the present. I'm struck by the fact that Rose is smiling in only two of the pictures. There's something eerily adult in her eyes, even as a toddler.
I want to pause and study the photographs—there's another off detail tickling my brain—but Beth is moving quickly. It's a struggle to catch up to her; my limbs feel leaden.
As we approach the second-floor landing, my gaze is pulled to the rear of the house. A window overlooks the grounds. The nanny would have tumbled past that pane of glass, her face filled with terror, her arms outstretched.
I suppress a shudder. If I were the Barclays, I'd move out as quickly as possible. It seems strange that given the ugliness of their pending divorce, they're still living under the same roof.
But Charles explained why: The Barclays have agreed to sell the house, and Ian Barclay is honoring the prenup he signed by not angling for alimony or a piece of Beth's inheritance, so their standoff has nothing to do with money. Each will leave the marriage with the same assets they brought into it.
But neither Beth nor Ian wants to give up their chance at winning full custody of Rose—and they see moving out as a losing chess move.
My chest tightens. The fate of a helpless young child rests in my hands, and I have no idea if I'm equipped to fix what seems like an unwinnable future for her.
More than a half-dozen doors with round brass knobs line the second floor, and all are closed. I wonder what lies behind them. There are no other visible windows in the hallway, and the space is dim.
Beth passes two doors, then pauses at the third and taps her knuckles against it. I inhale a deep breath into my pinched lungs. This is my first chance to look beyond the surface, to see what all the tabloid articles and TV clips couldn't.
Beth opens the door to reveal a tidy bedroom with walls painted soft pink. A wooden rocking chair occupies one corner, and on the canopy bed is a large cloth doll that appears to be formed in Rose's image—down to her wide blue eyes and freckles.
"Rose? I have someone I'd like you to meet."
I don't love Beth's choice of words. There's an implication of ownership to them, like I'm here as Beth's guest. In order for me to do my job, Rose can't think I'm in the corner of either of her parents. I'm here to serve her, not the adults in her life.
Rose twists around from her white wooden desk, where she's reading a book. I glimpse the title on the jacket: Anne of Green Gables.
"Hi, Rose." I keep my tone light. "My name is Stella Hudson."
Rose's eyes are downcast. She doesn't give any indication she has heard me.
"I'm a lawyer, Rose. And guess what? I'm here to work for you."
She doesn't react.
Sometimes my clients are glad I've arrived. They're desperate for someone to finally listen to them. Others are resistant. This year alone I've had a fifteen-year-old girl slam a door in my face, narrowly missing catching my hand in it, and a seventeen-year-old boy curse me out, a vein bulging in his forehead and his voice rising into a deep-timbred shout—just before he fell to his knees and burst into tears.
I have no idea how Rose feels about my presence.
"I know there's a lot going on for you right now, and it's probably pretty confusing," I continue. "I'll be spending some time with you and your parents over the next few weeks to help figure out what will make you happiest."
Rose is wearing a green velvet dress today, with her loose red curls pulled back in a matching headband. Up close, I see a sprinkling of freckles across her nose and cheeks. Again, I'm struck by how young and innocent she appears—and by how formally she is dressed.
I wonder where she put the shard of glass.
"I like your room." I glance around, spotting a blue ribbon from a horse show, a tall bookshelf in white wood, and a painting of a garden scene in another large, ornate gold frame.
"This painting is so pretty and peaceful. It must be nice to look at."
I keep my tone gentle and pleasant as I admire the pink flowers and the little dog peeking out from behind a tree. "I didn't see the dog at first… It's almost like he's playing hide-and-seek."
I don't ask a single question because I know Rose won't answer.
She can't speak.