Chapter 5: The Golden Child

The front door slammed, the vibration traveling up through the floorboards and into the soles of my feet. Ben flinched, instinctively covering the small monitor screen against his chest. I didn't move. I knew that slam. It was the sound of a Porsche Cayenne door closing with expensive authority.

"Cousin Mark," I said.

Ben looked at me, eyebrows raised. "The Golden Boy?"

"The same." I pointed at the drill hole. "Cover that. Put the painting back up."

Ben moved fast, sliding the heavy oil portrait of Grandfather Sterling back over the wainscoting just as the heavy footsteps echoed in the foyer.

Mark Sterling walked into the dining room like he owned it, which, legally speaking, he would as soon as Edith died. He was wearing a polo shirt that cost more than my weekly grocery budget and a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"Sarah!" he boomed, spreading his arms. "Look at you, covered in grime. You really get into it, don't you?"

"Someone has to," I said, wiping my hands on my jeans. "What are you doing here, Mark? Edith said I had the site until Friday."

"Just checking in, cuz. Mom worries." He walked around the room, nudging a pile of contractor bags with the toe of his loafer. "She thinks you're overworking yourself. You look tired."

"I have a sick kid, Mark. I'm always tired."

He winced, a performance of empathy that lasted exactly two seconds. "Right. Leo. How is the little guy?"

"Needing a bone marrow transplant," I said flatly. "Which is why I need this house sold. So I'm working."

Mark stopped near the fireplace. He wasn't looking at me. He was looking at the walls. His eyes tracked the crown molding, then dropped to the wainscoting. He was scanning the room with the same intensity Ben had used, but with none of the professional curiosity. This was anxiety.

"You know," he said, turning back to me with a forced casualness. "Mom was saying maybe we should just bulldoze it. The land is worth more than the structure, right? Why go through all this... excavation?"

"Bulldoze it?" I asked. "It's a historical landmark, Mark. We can't just knock it down."

"Grease a few palms on the zoning board," he shrugged. "It happens. Save you a lot of sweat."

He walked over to the table where the blueprints were still spread out. He picked up the corner of the 1890 plan, his eyes darting over the lines.

"What's this?" He pointed to the dining room dimensions.

"Just checking the square footage," Ben said, stepping forward. "For the listing."

Mark looked at Ben, then at the wall behind him. The wall with the hidden room.

"You finding anything interesting?" Mark asked. His voice was light, but his hand was gripping the edge of the table so hard his knuckles were white. "Aunt Clara was a nutjob. Who knows what she shoved in the walls, right?"

"Just trash," I said. "Newspapers. magazines. Cat skeletons."

Mark laughed, a sharp bark of sound. "Right. Trash. Best to just burn it all, honestly. Start fresh."

He let go of the table and walked toward me. He put a hand on my shoulder, squeezing a little too hard.

"Don't dig too deep, Sarah," he said softly. "Mom wouldn't like you poking holes in the past. It's messy. And you know how she gets when things are messy."

I looked at his hand on my shoulder, then up at his face. He wasn't just being condescending. He was scared.

"What are you afraid I'll find, Mark?"

He leaned in, his breath smelling of breath mints and stale scotch.

"I'm not afraid of anything," he whispered. "I'm just looking out for you. You don't want the Trust to think you're... unstable. Like Clara. Do you?"

He patted my shoulder, then stepped back, his smile clicking back into place like a weapon reloading.

"Let sleeping dogs lie, Sarah," he said. "For Leo's sake."