I nod and climb the steps.
I check the recording device one last time—activated, running, ready to capture everything—before I push open the unlocked door.
The foyer echoes. No Charles. No staff. Just expensive silence and the distant sound of?—
Is she crying?
I follow it to the drawing room.
Mother's not on her usual throne. She's at the window, her back to the door, shoulders shaking in a way I've never seen. She's wearing cream Chanel, but her hair's down. Loose.
Catherine Davenport doesn't do loose hair.
"Mother?"
She spins. Mascara streaked. Eyes swollen. Lipstick chewed off. She looks like she's aged a decade since last week.
She looks human.
I almost feel sorry for her.
Almost.
"Isabelle." Her voice cracks. "I wondered when you'd come."
"You knew I'd figure it out."
"You're Richard's daughter." She laughs, wet and broken. "Of course you figured it out. You're relentless when you want answers."
"Fifteen years. You and Matthew." I move closer, watching her face. "That I knew. I watched you two together at Circo. Saw the way you touched him. The way he looked at you like he owned you."
Her face pales further. "You were at Circo?"
"Your name on the Cayman account. That's what I didn't know until this morning." I let the words land like bullets. "Joint account. Your signature on the wire transfer that paid Ivan Olegov two million dollars to murder my father."
She sways slightly, gripping the back of the settee.
"You weren't just having an affair. You weren't just complicit in the cover-up. You helped fund the hit, Mother. Your money. Your signature. Your hands are just as bloody as Matthew's."
"You don't understand?—"
"Then help me understand." I close the distance between us, forcing her to either hold her ground or retreat. She retreats. "I knew Matthew killed Dad. I've known for weeks. But I thought you were just a coward who looked the other way. This proves you were a partner. So explain it to me. Explain how you signed your name to my father's death warrant."
"It wasn't like that—the account was Matthew's idea—I didn't know what it would be used for."
"Bullshit." I pull out my phone, queue up the bank records. "Your signature. Dated three months before the explosion. You helped set up the account that would later pay for Dad's murder. You knew what Matthew was planning."
"I didn't—" She presses her hand to her mouth. "I didn't want him dead. Not at first. You have to believe that."
"Not at first." I let the words hang between us. "But eventually?"
Her silence is its own confession.
"When did you find out, Mother? Before the boat? After? When did you realize your lover had killed your husband and decide to keep your mouth shut?"
"He found out." Her voice drops to a whisper. "Richard. About us. Two weeks before—" She stops.
I sink into the nearest chair, letting the weight of it settle. This is what I came for. This is the missing piece—why Matthew moved when he did.
