The low hum of the Vance private jet was a monotonous counterpoint to the frantic thrumming of my own pulse. Beside me, Olivia idly flipped through a glossy fashion magazine, the picture of bored indulgence. Her presence on this "tennis retreat" was a gilded chain, a constant, unwelcome reminder that Caroline's permission had come with strings – or rather, with a perfectly coiffed, emerald-eyed chaperone. Each mile that carried us closer to Sarasota, Florida, felt like a mile deeper into enemy territory. The compact satellite phone and encrypted data chip, nestled innocuously in my tennis bag, felt less like tools and more like ticking time bombs. Davies' parting words, "Florida can be… unpredictable," replayed in my mind, a chilling understatement.
Upon landing, the humid Florida air wrapped around us like a damp shroud. A sleek black car, arranged by the Vance office, whisked us away. Olivia, surprisingly, seemed genuinely interested in the prospect of sun and leisure, chattering about poolside cocktails and potential shopping excursions. My feigned enthusiasm for the "Sarasota Elite Tennis Academy" was, I hoped, convincing enough. The academy, a sprawling complex of pristine courts and manicured lawns, was indeed exclusive. It was also, conveniently, located a mere twenty-minute drive from the last known address of Finch & Thornecroft – Specialized Fiduciary Services.
"Isn't this just divine, Eleanor?" Olivia sighed theatrically as we were shown to our luxurious adjoining suites at the academy's guesthouse. "A whole week of sunshine and… well, whatever it is you plan to do with those rackets." She eyed my tennis attire with a hint of amusement. "Do try not to strain yourself, dear. You still look so… fragile."
"I'll do my best, Olivia," I replied, offering a weak smile. "Perhaps the fresh air will do me good."
My plan was simple, in theory. I'd feign a sudden, acute aversion to the sun after an hour on the courts, or perhaps a recurrence of my convenient "migraines," necessitating a quiet afternoon of rest in my suite. From there, I'd slip away.
The first part went according to script. After a deliberately clumsy and short-lived attempt at a rally with a bewildered-looking tennis pro – Olivia watching from the shaded veranda with an air of smug superiority – I clutched my head, complained of dizziness, and retreated to my room, much to Olivia's feigned concern and barely concealed relief at being freed from her "chaperone" duties.
"You just rest, Eleanor," she'd cooed. "I'll have some chamomile tea sent up. Perhaps a nap is in order."
Once the coast was clear, I changed quickly, my heart pounding. The address for Finch & Thornecroft led me, via a discreetly hailed taxi, to a slightly faded, two-story office building in a quieter, older part of Sarasota. It had an air of forgotten respectability, its once-grand facade now showing the subtle ravages of time and humidity. The directory in the small, cool lobby was an old-fashioned, glass-fronted affair with removable lettered slats. Finch & Thornecroft, Suite 204. The name was still there, a ghostly remnant.
Suite 204 was at the end of a dim, quiet corridor. The frosted glass door bore the same elegant, slightly old-fashioned lettering. I tried the knob. Locked. Of course. Peering through the frosted glass, I could make out only indistinct shapes, the dim outline of furniture. There were no sounds from within.
Desperation gnawed. Had I come all this way for nothing? Then I remembered the small, almost invisible toolkit Davies had also included with the satellite phone – a set of slender, professional-grade lock picks. His foresight was both a comfort and a chilling indicator of the stakes. My experience with such tools was purely theoretical, gleaned from late-night viewings of spy thrillers during my lonely boarding school years. But necessity, as they say, is a ruthless mother.
After several agonizing, fumbling minutes, during which every creak of the old building sounded like an approaching footstep, I felt a faint click. The lock turned. My breath caught.
The office was a time capsule. Dust lay thick on the mahogany desk, the leather chairs, the rows of neatly bound legal ledgers lining the bookshelves. It smelled of stale paper, old leather, and something else… a faint, lingering scent of pipe tobacco, a scent I vaguely associated with old photographs of my grandfather. It was clear no one had disturbed this room in months, perhaps longer. Finch's departure had indeed been hasty.
I moved quickly, methodically. The desk drawers yielded little – old stationery, dried-up pens, paperclips. The ledgers on the shelves were filled with meticulously kept records of trusts, estates, fiduciary accounts, most dating back years, even decades. The names were a roll-call of Sarasota's quiet old money, but nothing immediately screamed "Vance" or "Rose Guard Fund."
Then, on the bottom shelf, tucked behind a row of imposing legal texts, I found a single, slimmer volume. It wasn't a ledger, but a beautifully bound, dark green leather journal, its pages secured with a small, tarnished brass clasp. There were no initials, no title on its spine. It felt… personal.
The clasp, however, was not a simple one. It had a tiny, intricate keyhole, far too small for any conventional key. My heart leaped. The A.G. locket. Penny had said it was a key. Could this be its lock?
With trembling fingers, I retrieved the locket from its hiding place. The tiny, keyhole-shaped aperture on its face… I aligned it with the journal's minuscule keyhole. It was a perfect, almost unnerving, match. Holding my breath, I gently pressed, then rotated the locket's face, just as I had with the silver box.
Another soft snick. The brass clasp on the journal sprang open.
The journal was filled with Alistair Finch's neat, precise handwriting. It wasn't a daily diary, but a series of dated entries, observations, and… warnings. I flipped through the pages, my eyes scanning for any mention of Grimshaw, my grandmother, or the Vances.
And then I found it. An entry dated approximately seven months prior, just before his disappearance.
October 14th. The inquiries persist. More subtle this time, less direct than the initial overtures last year, but the scent of Thornecroft is unmistakable. They are sniffing around the old Vance trusts, specifically Annelise's more… unconventional arrangements. Penelope is worried, and rightly so. A.G.'s safeguards were designed for a different era, a different kind of predator. Julian T. is a new breed. He plays a longer, darker game.
Julian T. Julian Thornecroft. Finch knew him, feared him. And he was connected to these "inquiries."
Another entry, a week later:
October 21st. Met with a representative. Polite, but the eyes were cold. Offered a substantial sum for "any and all records pertaining to the late Arthur Grimshaw's association with the Vance family, particularly any discretionary funds or private trusts established by Lady Annelise Vance." The offer was… persuasive. The implied alternative, even more so. I refused, of course. A.G. was my mentor, Annelise a woman I deeply respected. But I am not a young man anymore. The shadows are lengthening.
My hands were shaking so hard I could barely hold the journal. Finch hadn't just vanished; he'd been threatened, pressured.
The final entry was short, dated two days after the last:
October 23rd. They know about the locket. They know about the box. They don't know what they truly open. P.F. has the first key. The second is now with the 'Rose of Sarasota' – if she still blooms. The thorns are sharper than ever. Time to disappear before I am pruned. Some seeds are best sown in secret, to bloom in a safer season.
The "Rose of Sarasota"? Another cryptic clue. A person? A place? And what was the "second key" he spoke of? The locket had opened the silver box, and now this journal. Was there something else?
Before I could process it further, a sound from the corridor outside the office door – a soft footfall, then another. My blood turned to ice. The building had been utterly silent. I doused my phone light, plunging the office into near darkness, my heart hammering against my ribs. I scrambled behind the large mahogany desk, crouching low, the journal clutched to my chest.
The doorknob began to turn, slowly, silently.
Who was it? Had Olivia, her suspicions aroused by my prolonged absence, sent someone from the academy? Or worse, had Finch's office been under surveillance by Thornecroft's people all along, and I had just walked right into their web? The faint scent of old pipe tobacco suddenly seemed cloying, suffocating, like the dust of a tomb I had unwisely disturbed. What had Finch meant by the "Rose of Sarasota," and would I even get the chance to find out?