Blake began to climb the steep stairway to the third floor. With each step, Blake felt the air getting thinner. He felt an electric charge in the air. He had the feeling that he wasn’t alone. Every step, covered with ancient, tattered carpeting, creaked in protest. Every move became a struggle, until finally he reached the metal door. He had never realized how intricately detailed it was - golden bronze with lavish flora and Celtic knotting woven into the metal. He moved a panel on the door, and it slid along a track on the door to reveal an old keyhole. He inserted the key and turned forcefully. He put his hand on the knob expecting to receive resistance, but to his surprise the door opened with a gentle twist.
The door swung open as the last strike of midnight boomed from the clock. What Blake saw before him confused him. Blake expected to see a dingy, unkempt attic with dust, boxes, and things strewn about. Instead, an immaculate parlor lay before him. Rather than looking like a room that had been left unattended for more than fifteen years, the third-floor suite was perfectly polished and quite beautiful. The blue wallpaper with yellow birds and white oleanders hadn’t aged a day. On the west wall of the parlor stood a large circular window that took precedence over all other interior décor. The white lace curtains were brushed aside, allowing the pale moon to shine in, its yellow light illuminating the parlor in a ghostly glow.
In front of the window stood an antique wooden music stand with sheet music neatly in place. At its clawed feet lay a red stained violin, the only object in the room that appeared out of place. Blake inspected the room further. There were no cob webs hanging from the Baroque era chandelier or the vaulted ceilings, nor were there any boxes, dust or spiders for Blake to dodge. This room was much cleaner than any of the rooms in the main part of the house had ever been. While Aunt Bridgette did a good job cleaning, she had a serious problem with clutter. Why then, if we have all this room up here, did we need to cram up the downstairs? It didn't make sense.
Blake moved to the north wall, walking carefully over the elaborate Persian rug that stood beneath his sneakers. Along the north wall were oil paintings in a variety of colors. Most were the artist’s rendering of the Morrow Manor, from the Haggar Tree and Croft Lake to the original blue stables and barn. One painting that caught Blake’s eye was an oil painting of a man that he recognized immediately. Hung in the center of the wall, the painting looked very life-like. It was as if his father was looking right back at him from the wall. It was one of those paintings in which you felt the eyes following you wherever you went. Blake’s anxiety began to increase the more he looked at the painting. Still, he couldn't help looking. It was as if the artist knew Jack's face so well, as if she had created it herself, having masterfully captured the curve of his nose, the faint scar on his left cheek, even the little bit of brown in his otherwise green eyes. Fixated on the portrait, Blake concluded that it couldn’t be anyone other than his mother who could recreate his father like this.
Finally, he broke his stare from the painting, anxious to see what else the third floor had in store for him. He wandered down the bright hallway that seemed to beckon him. He tried the first door to his right, and turned the doorknob gently to reveal an immaculately clean bedroom. White linens covered a queen-size bed, while silk white flowers were situated in a clear vase and a wicker rocking chair sat in the corner. This was her room. Blake opened the closet door to reveal a closet full of women’s clothing - dresses, pant sets, formal wear, and jogging suits. Below them, pairs of shoes neatly lined the closet floor.
Blake returned to the hallway and went to the door across the bedroom, the only door on the left. Blake entered a large room with a plethora of artwork hanging on the walls. On the far side of the room, under a windowsill, stood a desk overflowing with paint, paintbrushes, and dull pencils.
This must have been where she came to relax.
Perplexed, Blake moved on to the last and final room on the third floor. Boxes upon boxes crowded the room making it hard for Blake to walk.
Finally, something I could use.
But as he looked through the boxes, he didn’t find anything he was expecting, only boxes with picture albums, photographs, old school records and report cards, her yellowing wedding gown and veil, tax and business records. Jack wasn’t hiding anything other than his grief for Catherine. Blake turned the lights off, and slowly retreated downstairs, closing the door shut behind him.
Chapter 12
Interrogations
October 9, 1997
Morrow Manor
The following morning, Sergeant DiNolfo arrived at the Morrow Manor fully equipped with a small team of investigators. Two men and a woman dressed from head to toe in black, carried silver cases with their hands sheathed in rubber gloves. Bridgette swung open the heavy oak door and let the investigators step into the foyer, DiNolfo following behind them. The sergeant stopped in the foyer and scanned the layout of the house with a determined look in her eyes. It gave DiNolfo the appearance of someone who was looking for a particular object. She looked at Bridgette who was beginning to show signs of exhaustion and asked, “Is everyone here?”
“Yes. Jack will be along any minute now. I’m keeping the kids home from school until Tristan is found,” replied Bridgette.