Amanda was still standing in the middle of the penthouse, smiling as if she had just won the greatest prize of her life.
“Richard left everything to me,” she announced, lifting her champagne glass.
“I suppose that settles everything.”
Her friends laughed.
I stood beside the marble fireplace, holding the envelope my son had left me.
A one-way ticket to France.
That was apparently the entire inheritance of the woman who had raised him, sacrificed for him, and loved him more than anything in the world.
I wanted to scream.
I wanted to ask Amanda how she could celebrate while her husband’s grave was still fresh.
Instead, I slipped the ticket into my handbag.
“Thank you, Mr.
Palmer,” I said quietly.
The attorney followed me toward the entrance.
Just before I reached the elevator, he caught up with me.
“Mrs.
Thompson, please.”
I turned.
“Richard specifically instructed me to tell you that the ticket must be used.
He was very particular about that condition.”
“Did he explain why?”
Palmer hesitated.
“No.
But I believe he wanted you to discover something yourself.”
I looked down at the envelope.
For the first time that afternoon, I felt something other than grief.
Curiosity.
That evening, I packed one suitcase.
I didn’t know what awaited me in France, but I knew my son well enough to understand that he never did anything without a reason.
The following morning, I boarded the plane.
I left behind the penthouse, the wealthy guests, Amanda’s laughter, and the life I had thought I understood.
I had no idea that the journey would change everything.
THE FIVE WORDS AT THE FRENCH STATION
The plane landed in Lyon shortly after sunrise.
From there, I took a train through the French countryside toward Saint-Michel-de-Maurienne.
The landscape was breathtaking.
Green valleys stretched beneath towering mountains, little villages appeared between fields, and ancient stone houses stood along narrow roads.
I should have been enjoying the scenery.
Instead, I was terrified.
What had Richard wanted me to find? Why had he sent me here? And why had he made the ticket conditional?
When the train finally stopped, I stepped onto the nearly empty platform.
A silver-haired man stood beside a black Mercedes.
He held a white sign bearing my name.
ELEANOR THOMPSON.
“Mrs.
Thompson?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Marcel.
I worked with your son.”
I froze.
“You knew Richard?”
“For several years, madam.
He asked me to collect you personally if you ever arrived.”
“If I ever arrived?”
Marcel nodded.
He opened the passenger door, then looked directly at me.
“He left you the truth.”
Five words.
Five words that made my heart pound so violently I had to grip the strap of my handbag.
“What truth?”
Marcel lowered his voice.
“Your son’s death was not an accident.”
I felt the blood drain from my face.
“Are you saying someone killed my son?”
“I am saying that Richard prepared for this possibility.
He left instructions.
I was never supposed to explain anything before bringing you to the house.”
The drive took nearly forty minutes.
We passed small villages, vineyards, mountain roads, and fields dotted with wildflowers.
Eventually, Marcel turned onto a private road leading to a magnificent old stone estate.
It was beautiful.
Tall windows overlooked the valley.
Ivy climbed the walls, and a
