Chapter 4: The Apartment on Carver Street
The address in Marissa's employment file led Adrian to a four-story brick building on Carver Street, about twenty minutes from the estate by car.
He parked across the street and sat for a moment.
He had not called ahead.
He had not planned what to say.
He only knew that Marissa had received a letter designed to frighten her away from something she didn't even know she had a right to, and that she deserved to hear the truth from someone who wasn't trying to protect themselves.
He crossed the street and pressed the buzzer for apartment 2C.
Silence.
He pressed it again.
A long pause.
Then a voice through the intercom, cautious and tired.
"Who is it?"
"Marissa.
It's Adrian Whitmore."
Another silence.
Longer this time.
"Mr.
Whitmore?"
"I'm sorry to come without calling.
I need to speak with you.
It's important."
The intercom went quiet.
Then the door buzzed open.
The hallway smelled of old carpet and someone's dinner cooking on an upper floor.
Adrian climbed one flight of stairs and found Marissa standing in the open doorway of apartment 2C.
She was still in her work clothes.
Owen was on her hip, one small fist wrapped around the collar of her shirt.
He was awake and watching Adrian with large, dark eyes.
Marissa's expression was careful.
Not unfriendly.
But guarded in a way Adrian had not seen at the estate.
"Is everything all right?" she asked.
"May I come in?"
She stepped back.
The apartment was small and very clean.
A secondhand sofa.
A folding table near the window with two chairs.
A baby blanket draped over the arm of the sofa.
On the kitchen counter, a single bottle of formula stood next to a drying rack.
Marissa sat down on the sofa and settled Owen against her side.
She did not offer Adrian the other seat.
She waited.
"I owe you an explanation," Adrian said.
"And an apology."
Her eyes moved to his face.
"Did you receive a letter recently?
From Gerald Holt?"
Something shifted in her expression.
Her hand moved to Owen's back.
"Yes," she said.
"Three days ago."
"What did you understand it to mean?"
She looked at him steadily.
"That someone thought I was trying to take something that didn't belong to me." Her voice was quiet.
Even.
"I don't know what I supposedly did to make that necessary.
Daniel never talked about the Whitmore family.
He barely talked about his grandfather at all.
I only knew his name was Thomas."
"Thomas Keane was Edward Whitmore's son," Adrian said.
"My grandfather's son.
From before his marriage.
Edward kept it private his entire life.
Daniel was Thomas's son.
Which means Daniel was my grandfather's grandson."
Marissa did not move.
Owen made a small sound and she shifted him automatically, her eyes still on Adrian.
"My grandfather left a written wish," Adrian continued.
"That Daniel — and Daniel's descendants — receive a fair share of the Whitmore estate.
The same as any recognized grandchild."
The room was very quiet.
"Owen," Marissa said softly.
"Yes."
She looked down at her son.
Owen had fallen still, his head resting against her shoulder, watching the stranger in the room with calm, patient eyes.
"Why are you telling me this?" Marissa asked.
"You didn't have to come here."
"Because Gerald sent you that letter without my knowledge.
And because someone in my family has been making sure this stayed buried for a long time." Adrian sat down in the chair across from her.
"I found a letter my father wrote five years ago.
He knew about Daniel.
He intended to do something about it.
He got sick before he could."
Marissa was quiet for a moment.
"Daniel knew something was wrong," she said finally.
"In the last year before he passed, he kept saying there was something his father had told him that he needed to look into.
Something about a name.
A family connection he couldn't quite piece together." She paused.
"He never got the chance either."
The word landed between them without drama.
Just the plain weight of it.
"I'm going to correct this," Adrian said.
"I want you to know that.
But I also need to ask you something first." He leaned forward slightly.
"Do you have anything Daniel left behind?
Documents, letters, anything his father may have given him?"
Marissa looked at him for a long moment.
Then she stood up, settled Owen carefully on the sofa cushion beside her, and walked to the bedroom.
Adrian heard a drawer open.
A pause.
The sound of something being moved.
She came back carrying a small wooden box.
She set it on the table between them and sat down again.
"Daniel kept this locked for years," she said.
"He gave me the key the week before he passed.
He told me to keep it safe and that someday I would understand why." She looked at the box.
"I've never opened it."
Adrian looked at the box.
Then at Marissa.
"Would you open it now?"
Her hand rested on the lid for a moment.
Then her phone rang.
She glanced at the screen.
Her face changed.
"It's a number I don't recognize," she said.
"A Boston area code."
She answered it on speaker without thinking.
A man's voice filled the small apartment.
Smooth.
Controlled.
Familiar to Adrian in a way that made his jaw tighten.
"Mrs.
Keane.
May you like
My name is Richard Whitmore.
I believe we have something important to discuss before this goes any further."
