Not in the Room
Constance Byrne lived in a small brick house with a garden gone slightly wild, the kind of wild that says someone used to keep it perfect and then decided perfect wasn't worth the knees anymore. She opened the door before Odessa reached the porch, as if she'd been watching the street.
"I wondered when someone would come asking," she said.
"You knew Garrick would do this."
"I knew somebody would, eventually. Aldric knew it too. Come in."
The house smelled like lemon polish and old paper. Constance moved slowly but with purpose, into a back room that had clearly once been an office and was now mostly boxes.
"Your husband gave me something to keep," she said, "eleven years ago, after I did the correction filing. Told me not to hand it over unless it was needed." She looked at Odessa over her glasses. "I'd say it's needed."
"Then give it to me."
"No."
Odessa blinked. "No?"
"Those were his instructions, not mine, and I intend to follow them exactly, because I made him a promise and I don't break those." Constance settled into a chair with the particular firmness of a woman who has outlived several people who tried to rush her. "He said I could only open the box in front of all three of you together. You, Roman, and Thalia."
"That's fine. I'll bring them tonight."
"There's one more condition."
"What."
Constance's expression didn't change, but something in her voice sharpened. "Garrick is never in the room when this box opens. Not in the house. Not in the driveway. Aldric was very specific about that, Odessa, and knowing your husband, he did not choose words like that by accident."
Odessa felt something cold settle under her ribs. "Why would that matter? What's in the box?"
Constance stood, walked to a locked cabinet, and rested one hand flat on its door without opening it.
"Twenty years ago your husband nearly lost everything he owned," she said. "And the reason he didn't isn't the reason anyone in your family has ever been told."