Chapter 11: The Necklace With Two Halves
I arrived at the hospital the following morning with Sophie's hand wrapped around mine and my mother's letter secured inside my bag.
My father was awake, sitting at the edge of his bed while a nurse checked his blood pressure.
When he saw the photograph on my phone, he immediately asked the nurse to leave.
“Where did you get that?”” he demanded.
“You sent it to me.””
“I know, but I need to know whether you showed it to anyone.””
“Not yet.””
He looked relieved, then frightened again.
“Emily, that pendant belongs to Robert.””
I stared at him.
“You said Mom wore the other half.””
“She did.””
“Then why does Robert have it?””
My father rubbed his forehead carefully around the bandage.
“Your mother and Robert designed the original butterfly emblem together when they first started the business. They each kept a half of the pendant as a symbol of their partnership.””
I frowned.
“I thought Mom designed the collection alone.””
“She designed the garments. Robert handled some of the early business arrangements. They were partners for a short time, but the relationship fell apart when she discovered he was selling designs without her permission.””
“Why didn't you tell me?””
“Because I didn't want you to think your mother had trusted the wrong person.””
I stared at him.
“Dad, she did trust the wrong person. That's what makes this so painful. Pretending otherwise doesn't protect her.””
He lowered his eyes.
“You're right.””
I took the brass key from my pocket and placed it beside his hand.
“I want to go to the studio.””
“Absolutely not.””
“Why?””
“Because Robert knows what is hidden there.””
“Then the police can come with us.””
My father looked toward the window.
For a moment, I thought he would refuse.
Then he nodded.
“I'll tell Detective Harris everything.””
An hour later, Detective Harris met us at the old Miller studio. Two uniformed officers stood outside while another examined the damaged front door.
The building looked smaller than I remembered.
The windows were dusty, the paint was peeling, and weeds had begun growing through cracks in the concrete. Yet when I stepped inside, I could still smell traces of my mother's world: old wood, fabric dust, and the faint metallic scent of sewing machine oil.
I stood in the doorway of her workshop.
Her cutting table remained near the window.
A rusted pair of shears lay beside a stack of yellowing pattern paper. A dress form stood in the corner, draped with a faded muslin prototype.
I touched the edge of the table.
“Mom used to let me sit here and draw while she worked.””
My father stood behind me.
“She loved having you here.””
“Then why did you let this place close?””
He didn't answer immediately.
“Because I couldn't afford to keep it open. And because every time I walked inside, I remembered what I'd failed to protect.””
I turned toward him.
“You didn't fail to protect the studio, Dad. You failed to tell me what happened.””
He accepted the accusation without defending himself.
Detective Harris approached the cutting table.
“Your daughter said there's a storage cabinet underneath.””
My father nodded.
“The key should open it.””
I crouched and inserted the brass key into a small lock hidden beneath the table's front edge.
It turned with a soft click.
Inside were several rolls of tracing paper, a bundle of fabric swatches, and a narrow wooden box.
I lifted the box carefully.
The lid bore my mother's initials.
E.M.
Inside lay a folded contract, a small digital recorder, and a sealed plastic pouch containing a silver butterfly pendant with a red stone set into its wings.
I looked at the pendant, then at the photograph my father had sent.
It was the same one.
Detective Harris photographed everything before allowing us to examine the contents.
The contract contained the original ownership agreement. It established that my mother retained exclusive rights to her designs and that any transfer required her written consent.
No such consent appeared in the document.
Instead, there was a note attached to the final page.
Robert Walker acknowledges receipt of copies for evaluation purposes only. No commercial use or transfer is authorized.
Below it was Robert's signature.
My father's hands trembled.
“He told me this agreement gave him temporary control of the collection.””
“It says the opposite,” I replied.
“I know.””
I picked up the digital recorder.
“What's this?””
My father stared at it.
“Your mother used to record design meetings so she wouldn't forget measurements or ideas.””
Detective Harris checked the device and confirmed it could be examined by a forensic technician.
Before he could place it in an evidence bag, a faint voice crackled from its speaker.
The battery was nearly dead, but the recorder had been left switched on.
A woman's voice filled the workshop.
My mother's voice.
“If anything happens to me, the original contract is beneath the cutting table. Robert has copies of the collection, but he does not own it. Vanessa knows about the sales, and she has agreed to help him unless I can convince her otherwise.””
My father covered his mouth.
The recording continued.
“I don't believe Daniel knows the full extent of what they've done. If he's listening to this, please don't blame him for every mistake. He is frightened, and frightened people sometimes surrender things they should protect.””
I felt tears slipping down my cheeks.
Even then, my mother had tried to protect my father.
The recording crackled again.
Then her voice grew quieter.
“There's one more thing. Robert told me that the first contract wasn't the only document signed. He says he has a second agreement, one that could transfer the collection without my consent.””
Detective Harris leaned closer to the recorder.
My mother continued.
“I believe he's lying. But if he isn't, I need to find out who signed it.””
The recording ended with a click.
I stared at the device.
“Who could sign a contract transferring Mom's collection without her consent?””
My father looked devastated.
“I don't know.””
Detective Harris carefully sealed the recorder and the documents.
“We'll need to investigate the second agreement. The recording is important, but it doesn't establish whether anyone interfered with your mother's medical care.””
“I understand,” I said.
I wanted answers, not assumptions.
Then my phone rang.
An unfamiliar number.
I answered on speaker.
A man's voice came through, calm and unmistakably familiar from the few childhood memories I had of him.
“Emily Miller?””
“Yes. Who is this?””
“Robert Walker.””
My father went rigid.
Detective Harris immediately signaled for everyone to remain quiet.
Robert continued.
“I understand you've been digging through your mother's old belongings.””
“You stole her designs.””
He gave a low chuckle.
“Your mother and I had a complicated business relationship. You shouldn't make accusations based on a few old papers.””
“We found the original contract.””
Silence.
Then Robert's voice sharpened.
“Did you find the second agreement?””
I exchanged a look with Detective Harris.
“Why? What does it say?””
Robert exhaled slowly.
“Ask your father who signed it.””
I turned toward Daniel.
His face had gone completely white.
“Dad?””
Robert laughed softly through the phone.
“Oh, she hasn't told you, has she?””
My father reached for the phone, but Detective Harris held up a hand.
Robert continued.
“Your mother wasn't the only person who signed away something that night. Daniel made a choice that changed the ownership of the entire collection.””
I looked at my father.
He couldn't meet my eyes.
Robert's final words came like a blade sliding between my ribs.
“Ask him what he promised in exchange for keeping you out of the hospital.””
The call ended.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then I turned toward my father.
“What did you promise them?””
May you like
He sank into the chair beside the cutting table.
And for the first time since I was a child, my father looked at me as though he was afraid I would never forgive him.
