Page 42 of On Thin Ice

Taking in the space, I saw immediately that it was bigger than Sinclair’s bedroom—which was rather large for what it was. I realized fairly quickly that the missing room on this wing had become more space for this bedroom. In addition to two large dressers, there was a desk, a large low table with a mirror and a lovely stool—likely a makeup table, and a sofa with a coffee table. The king-sized bed had a canopy and two large nightstands on either side. There was also a beautiful stone fireplace that practically dominated the room.

On the other side of the room were three doors. The one against the outer wall was a large bathroom, slightly bigger than Sinclair’s. The other two doors led to walk-in closets. One of them was empty.

The other was full of women’s clothing. Or, rather, a woman’s. I had no doubt in my mind that these items belonged to Sinclair’s mother. Had the elder Mr. Whittier simply closed the closet door, planning to never look inside again? I was certain at some point Edna had said Sinclair’s father didn’t like living here after his wife had died.

Maybe he had loved her—but had a horrible way of showing it.

Now that I’d flipped on the light switch, I stepped inside. I touched a few of the beautiful dresses hanging on one side and walked around the space, wondering why I felt a little disappointed. Had I really expected to feel her presence here?

Still, it was fascinating that no one had done anything with her belongings. Was that why Sinclair had closed off this section of the mansion? But that didn’t make sense. He really hadn’t known his mother. Surely, he wasn’t grieving her loss.

But that didn’t mean he didn’t feel her absence in his life.

I realized I’d been sitting on the bench in the middle of the space, and I didn’t know how long I’d been there, musing about all the questions I’d probably never have answers to. So I stood, deciding to methodically look inside every drawer, every nook and cranny. What I was looking for, I didn’t know, but I suspected I’d never have this opportunity again.

First, I looked in all the shoe and hat boxes stacked on the upper shelf, using the folding stool I found tucked behind some of the dresses. Then I looked in all the drawers. Although I found plenty of items, including what I thought was inexpensive jewelry, I didn’t find anything that would help me solve any mysteries.

When I stepped out of the closet, I shut off the light and closed the door and immediately my body filled with panic.

I’d left the main door to the bedroom open.

I knew why I had: it had been so stuffy and dark in the room, my instinct had been to get the windows open quickly. But I knew that anyone walking through the main hall or antechamber downstairs would notice the shaft of light shining through this hallway—because the second floor of the east wing was always dark.

Quickly, I peeked out the door, my heart thudding in my chest—and, when I was certain the mansion was still empty, I closed the door. Leaning against its back, I almost started laughing at how hard my heart continued beating, almost as if I’d just sprinted down the block.

I moved over to the bed, peeking first underneath it. There were several dust bunnies on the shiny wooden floor but nothing else. The first nightstand was empty, save for a pair of glasses in a soft pouch and a book called The Intelligent Investor.

The other side was not empty. Instead, it was filled with the kinds of things I might put in a drawer beside the bed: a small sewing kit; several facial tissues folded neatly; several books; a dish holding coins, bobby pins, rubber bands, and hair clips; pens and pencils; dental floss, and a silver ring with opals shaped to resemble a tiny butterfly’s wings. There was also a small bottle of lotion, a jar of body butter, and a tube of lip balm that should have been thrown away ages ago. Although there were a lot of items, they were neatly arranged, just as everything in the closet had been.

But I realized…these were the things his mother used. In fact, they probably still had her DNA all over them. Suddenly, I felt like I was in an Egyptian pyramid, finding all of the pharaoh’s belongings, placed inside his tomb so they would be available to him in the afterlife. Only, just like those ancient rulers, Sinclair’s mother didn’t need these items there and so they remained, almost like haunted remnants of a past life.

Shaking off my macabre thoughts, I crossed to the short table sitting between two windows. I sat on the stool to look in the drawers. These were crammed full of things—and, although they were feminine and undoubtedly belonged to the same woman everything else here did—these items weren’t arranged with the care that I’d seen everywhere else. The bottom drawers, yes, but the two top drawers were stuffed, as if someone had swept everything on the table into them—perfumes, makeup, and skin care products piled on top of hair accessories. Rifling through the mess, I didn’t see anything that merited more of my attention.

But it was sad how it felt like someone hadn’t wanted to see her presence here—because, after having spent some time there, I was able to feel her…through her things, through what she’d left behind.

Standing, I pushed the stool back underneath the low table and turned to the dressers opposite. Just as I’d suspected, one was empty while the other was not. Like with the table, the top drawer was overfull. On the top layer were several jewelry boxes and picture frames while underneath were panties, slips, hosiery, socks, and a couple of pairs of gloves and scarves. Oddly enough, though, the jewelry boxes were mostly empty. The picture frames were not. They weren’t big pictures, but they were sweet—and, even though I’d never met any of these people, I knew exactly who they were. The first photo was formal. It was Sinclair’s mother and father with his two older brothers—but his brothers were both young. The oldest was grinning from ear to ear, his eyes closed in joy, his wide grin exposing the gap where his top two front teeth should have been. The younger boy didn’t seem happy to be there but he still sat on his mother’s lap and looked forward stoically as if enduring torture.

I focused on the woman, Constance Whittier. Her smile seemed genuine as it reached her eyes. They shone like emeralds in her face and her happiness radiated from her cheeks, her lips. As if I could read her mind in that moment, I knew she was satisfied with her lot in life—she had a man she adored and two healthy, beautiful sons she’d given birth to. Even Augustus Sinclair, their father, seemed to be content. Despite everything I’d read in her journals, I knew from this piece of evidence that they’d been happy once.

This picture was definitely worth a thousand words.

I knew the child sitting on Constance’s lap, the one who didn’t seem to be happy in the moment, was Warren and the older son sitting between the two adults was Sinclair’s oldest brother, the one Constance affectionately called Augie.

What had happened to ruin this picture of bliss?

There were three other photos: two I was certain were school portraits, one of Warren and the other of Augie, taken a few years later. The last was a baby picture, one of a newborn child, not in a frame at all. In fact, it had been on the very bottom of the drawer underneath everything else. It was of a baby boy with sapphire blue eyes, a peaceful expression—and a large bruise. It was a U shape. Above his lip was a cut, much more noticeable than now, because it was red and angry looking, an actual gash in the flesh. The line went down to his chin where it curved and moved upward again onto his cheek. Sinclair had said that the doctor had had to use forceps to get him out—and, even though I’d never seen forceps, I now had an idea of what they looked like, based on the impression that they’d left on this baby. He was probably lucky the only permanent damage was the scar above his lip…one that actually made him look unique, distinguished—and even sexy. And he likely knew that; otherwise, he would have likely grown thick facial hair.

I felt a shiver as I realized…Constance had managed to keep this one newborn photo from her husband. Had he destroyed all the photos before or after she’d died? Either way, she’d managed to preserve one for history.

Again, I’d been staring too long at the pictures, but I couldn’t help wanting to take them all in, especially Sinclair as a newborn. As I glanced a final time at the family portrait, resting them back in the drawer, I could see the family resemblance and suspected I would be able to recognize his brothers today.

After closing the top drawer, I began to again methodically look through the others. The second drawer was full of bras and camisoles and even swimming suits. The next drawer held jeans, t-shirts, and shorts, and the lowest drawer was full of nightclothes, from lingerie to simple nightgowns and pjs. But, as I began to slide it closed, I realized I hadn’t been searching through everything. If I hadn’t combed through the top one, I never would have found Sinclair’s newborn photo. So I lifted up the clothing in that last drawer, not wanting to disturb its neat arrangement. There was nothing there.

Same with the second-to-bottom drawer. Underneath the jeans and t-shirts was nothing more than the bottom of the smooth drawer. The next one, however, the second from the top, the one filled with bras and such—in there I found something.

Another journal.

My eyes grew wide as I realized it was this that I was searching for. I opened it to be sure—and, based on the handwriting I’d grown so familiar with and the date of the first entry, I knew this was probably the last journal she’d ever written. Wanting to confirm, I rifled through the pages to the back of the nondescript gray book, discovering only about one-third of the pages had been written on.

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