Chapter 27: The Sewing Room

Nathaniel's POV

The gate to my mother's house was open when we got there, and a man in a gray coat was standing on the drive with a locksmith.

It was ten to nine.

"Mr. Lathrop," the man said. "I represent your father's estate. I'm here to seal the property."

"On whose order?"

"A motion filed overnight."

"Has a judge signed it?"

He hesitated.

"Not yet."

"Then you're early," I said.

The house belongs to the Lathrop Foundation, and I have been the Foundation's chairman for exactly two days.

I took a pen out of my coat and signed the entry slip on his own clipboard.

"The chairman authorizes entry," I said. "You can wait outside."

Imogen took my hand, and I let her.

The front hall smelled of floor wax and cold radiators.

My father had not changed anything.

The portrait of my mother still hung over the staircase, and Gerald's shoes stood in a row by the door, shined and waiting.

I had not been past the landing in four years.

"Which way?" Imogen asked.

"Up. The second door on the left."

I put one foot on the stair, and my knees did not want to hold me.

"Nathaniel."

"I'm all right."

"You're not. That's fine. I'm here."

I went up.

The sewing room had been her private room, the only one in the house my father never entered, because she kept it locked.

The key was on my own ring.

I had carried it for four years and never once tried it in the door.

It turned easily.

Inside, the morning light came through lace curtains, and white sheets covered the furniture.

The sewing machine stood by the window under its own small sheet.

A basket of unfinished embroidery sat on the chair.

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