CHAPTER 4: The Empty Chair Was Never Empty

Whitaker walked to the head of the table and stopped behind August’s empty chair.
The chair had been polished until it shone, but no one had been allowed to sit there since the funeral. Celeste wanted absence to serve her story.
For weeks, Celeste had used that chair as a symbol. She left it vacant at meals. She placed fresh white roses before it each morning. She let guests see it and think of widowhood, loyalty, inheritance, sorrow.
Now Whitaker touched the chair back once, almost gently.
“Mr. Hart recorded a final instruction two days before his surgery,” he said.
Celeste answered too quickly. “That instruction was superseded.”
“No,” Whitaker said. “The draft you have been circulating was superseded.”
The room seemed to inhale.
Preston’s face lost color.
Aunt Margaret whispered his name, but he did not look at her. He was staring at the red folder now as if it had become dangerous.
Whitaker opened his briefcase and removed a second folder, darker than the first, sealed with August Hart’s private mark.
Isabella had seen that seal only once before, on the day her father made her promise never to sign anything at the table.
She understood then.
He had known.