Chapter 3 - The Secret in the Pocket
By 3:00 PM, I was back in Oakridge.
I parked my car two houses down, grabbed a large cardboard box filled with imported gourmet chocolates and souvenir gifts from Singapore—the classic “dutiful daughter” disguise—and walked up the stone pathway to the front door.
I rang the doorbell twice.
It took nearly a full minute before the lock clicked. The heavy oak door swung open, and Wendy stood there wearing an oversized silk bathrobe, her hair still wet from a shower. She looked annoyed at the interruption.
“Oh. It’s you again,” Wendy sighed, leaning against the doorframe. “What, did you forget your toothbrush?”
“I forgot to give Mom her welcome gift,” I said, forcing a bright, cheerful sisterly smile onto my face as I hoisted the heavy box in my arms. “I brought some high-end silk scarves and traditional pastries from Southeast Asia. Is she around? I want to say hello properly.”
Wendy rolled her eyes, stepping aside just enough for me to slip past into the foyer.
“She’s in the back laundry room sorting the whites,” Wendy muttered dismissively, walking back toward the kitchen where the clinking of ice in a glass indicated another round of mimosas was underway. “Don’t let her track dirt on the rugs, okay? I just had them steam-cleaned yesterday.”
“Of course,” I said sweetly.
I walked down the long, familiar hallway toward the rear of the house. The air smelled of heavy bleach and cheap lemon cleaner—a sharp contrast to the luxury candles that used to fill this home when my father was alive.
I pushed open the door to the utility room.
My mother was standing over an industrial folding table, folding oversized bath towels with mechanical, exhausted precision. Her shoulders were hunched, and her breathing was shallow.
“Mom?” I said softly, closing the door behind me so Wendy couldn't hear from the kitchen.
My mother didn't jump. She didn't gasp. She just slowly lowered the towel she was holding and kept her eyes glued to the metal tabletop.
“I’m folding them right,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “I swear I’m folding them right. Don't tell Luca. He gets angry when the corners don't match.”
It took everything in me not to break down right there. I crossed the room in two strides, knelt beside her chair, and took her frail, chapped hands in mine.
“Mom, look at me,” I whispered urgently, keeping my voice low. “It’s Jessi. I know you know who I am. Stop pretending.”
For a second, her hollow eyes flickered. A tiny spark of recognition—sharp, bright, and agonizingly clear—broke through the fog of exhaustion and fear.
She looked around the room frantically, checking the door to make sure it was closed. Then, with surprising speed, her right hand darted into the deep pocket of her oversized gray housekeeping smock.
She pressed something small, cold, and metallic into my palm, curling my fingers tightly over it.
I looked down. Resting in my palm was an old-fashioned brass skeleton key—the exact key to the antique oak safe built into the wall of my late father’s private study upstairs.
My mother leaned in close, her breath smelling faintly of peppermint tea, and whispered directly into my ear with absolute clarity:
“Your father said to give you this if Luca ever started calling himself the owner. It’s in the back of the safe behind his old ledger. All the real papers are in there. Don't let them take it, Jessi.”
I stared at her, stunned. Her voice wasn't confused. Her demeanor wasn't wandering.
She had been playing a part.
When she realized what Luca and Wendy were doing—when she saw them forge those papers and take over the house—she had realized she was trapped in a cage with two wolves. To survive, she had pretended to lose her mind so they would underestimate her, leaving her just enough space to breathe while she waited for me to come home.
My mother was a genius.
“I won't let them take anything,” I whispered back, squeezing her hand fiercely. “I’m going to fix this, Mom. Tonight.”
Before she could reply, heavy footsteps echoed down the hallway outside the utility room door.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
My mother instantly slumped back into her posture of exhaustion, her shoulders hunching over as her eyes went dull and vacant once more.
The door swung open, and Luca walked in, wearing a gold Rolex on his wrist—a watch that definitely hadn't belonged to him originally.
“Well, look who’s still hanging around,” Luca said, glaring at me with a suspicious squint. “What are you whispering to the help about?”
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I stood up slowly, slipping the brass key deep into the pocket of my jeans, and turned to face my brother with a cold, unreadable smile.
“Just giving her some souvenirs, Luca,” I said smoothly. “After all... someone has to be nice to the people who take care of this house.”
