Page 57 of 4th Silence
Meg glances my way.
This wasn’t the plan.
Abort, my instincts warn.
But my sister saves the day. “That’s what I wanted to talk to her about—having a fundraiser for some cold cases we’re working on. I have five skulls I’m rebuilding, and we have no identities for them yet. We’re out of funds to keep pursuing our investigations into them, and you know how underfunded law enforcement is these days. Can we come in? Maybe run some ideas past you? Like you said, it’s the holidays, a time for peace and forgiveness. We’re waving the white flag. Finding justice for these victims will be a win for everyone. Your mother can rave to the media how the Hartman Foundation was instrumental in helping.”
To my horror, Alex only hesitates a moment before he steps back, that winning smile returning. “I love that idea. We could call it”—he motions with his hand, creating an air marquee—“Reconstructing Hope. Or maybe, the Faces of the Forgotten Fundraiser.”
Meg steps across the threshold.
When I don’t, she glances over her shoulder at me.
“What are you doing?” I mouth.
My sister winks before she reaches for my arm and tugs me into the house.
16
Meg
* * *
There isn’t an ounce of me that believes Alex is buying this Hartman Foundation nonsense. I see it in his eyes. That gleam. The hunger to know why we’re really here.
Good for him. As nutty as this field trip is, I love the sheer ballsiness of it. We’re solving this murder—no matter the cost.
Alex leads us into the foyer. Charlie gliding past him and pausing as he closes the door behind us.
The mansion is everything I expected, right down to the sweeping double staircase that curves up to the second floor. I love the symmetry it brings to the wide entry, but I’ll never understand the waste of space.
Still, the designer opted for a minimalist style—creamy white walls and gleaming wainscoting.
A massive chandelier hangs from the vaulted ceiling. Sunlight streaming through the glass wall over the twin front doors makes the crystals glitter with flecks of azure, emerald, and rose.
The design is simple, but the scale—the sheer formidability—tells you everything this family wants the world to believe about their wealth, their power, their privilege.
Untouchable.
At least until now.
Alex gestures left. “Let’s go in here.”
He strides into the oversized living room, where an area rug that probably cost more than my duplex muffles the sound of our footsteps on the hardwood.
A Vermeer hangs over the white stone fireplace. An interesting choice, considering Vermeer specialized in quiet domestic scenes of middle-class life—something the Hartmans, with their obscene wealth, would never grasp.
I point. “Vermeer.”
Alex gives a perfunctory nod. “My mother bought it at an auction. Not my favorite, but she likes it.” He gestures to the sofa. “Please, have a seat. Can I get you anything? A drink?”
We both decline and settle onto the oversized white sofa perpendicular to the fireplace. Alex sinks into one of the giant armchairs across from us. Like the foyer, this room is built to impress—from the soaring ceilings to the enormous windows and the furniture that screams grandeur.
Mary Hartman is no fool. She understands all too well how to use her money to intimidate. It annoys the hell out of me, knowing it has shielded them from a murder investigation.
“So,” Alex says, focusing on Charlie, “before you tell me more about this fundraiser idea, I have to say, I was appalled to see the headlines this morning. JJ’s one of my closest friends. It’s all rather shocking, no?”
Charlie, being Charlie, sits utterly composed, her face a bland mask, not a frown or raised brow in sight. “Clearly,” she says, “someone’s trying to destroy my reputation with this ridiculous accusation.”
