The slow, deliberate turn of the doorknob was an agonizing symphony of impending doom. Crouched behind Finch's massive mahogany desk, the journal clutched to my chest like a shield, I held my breath, every nerve screaming. My phone, with its dim light, was now a liability, extinguished. The office was plunged back into the dusty gloom, broken only by the faint ambient light filtering through the frosted glass from the corridor. This was it. Cornered. Had Olivia's suspicions led her, or one of her lackeys, directly to me? Or worse, was it one of Thornecroft's operatives, come to sanitize Finch's last refuge?
The door creaked open, a sliver of pale corridor light slicing into the room. A figure filled the doorway – large, indistinct. Then, a jangle of keys, a weary sigh, and a gruff voice muttered, "Damn lights always out in this wing. Old Man Finch probably forgot to pay the electric again before he skedaddled…"
Not Olivia. Not Thornecroft. A janitor? Or building security?
My mind raced. I couldn't stay hidden. The room was too small, too exposed. I needed to control the narrative, and fast. Taking a deep, steadying breath, I slowly rose, deliberately making a small, shuffling noise, as if startled from a doze.
"Oh! Oh my goodness!" I exclaimed, my voice a carefully calibrated blend of surprise, fear, and utter girlish helplessness. I allowed my phone to clatter to the floor, feigning a clumsy fumble in the dimness. "You… you startled me! I… I must have fallen asleep."
The figure at the door, a portly man in a faded blue work shirt with 'Sarasota Building Maintenance' embroidered on the pocket, jumped nearly a foot in the air. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Lady, what in tarnation are you doin' in here? This office has been empty for months! You nearly gave old Earl a heart attack!" He fumbled for a light switch just inside the door, and the room was suddenly flooded with the harsh, unflattering glare of an overhead fluorescent bulb.
I blinked, shielding my eyes, adopting my most bewildered, innocent expression. "Oh, I am so terribly sorry," I stammered, my voice trembling slightly. "I… I was looking for the… the historical society archives? My taxi driver must have misunderstood the address. This building is so… labyrinthine. I saw the door was ajar, and it looked so quiet, I thought perhaps…" I trailed off, hoping my performance as a lost, slightly dim-witted tourist was convincing. The Finch & Thornecroft sign was still on the door; he'd see it.
Earl, the janitor, scratched his head, his initial shock giving way to a mixture of suspicion and pity. "Historical society? Ma'am, this here is the old Finch law office. Hasn't been anyone in here since Mr. Finch up and left last fall. Door was ajar, you say?" His gaze flickered to the lock, then back to me. My heart pounded. Had my amateur lock-picking left tell-tale scratches?
"Yes," I said quickly, a touch too quickly. "Just a little. I pushed it gently, and it swung open. I suppose I shouldn't have entered, but I was feeling a little faint from the heat outside, and it looked so cool and shady…" I pressed a hand to my forehead, feigning a delicate swoon.
Earl, a man clearly unaccustomed to dealing with distressed, and apparently very lost, young ladies in dusty, abandoned law offices, seemed to soften. "Well, now, no harm done, I suppose. Though you shouldn't be wanderin' into empty offices, miss. Not safe." He looked me up and down, taking in my simple, albeit expensive, linen dress. "You ain't from around here, are ya?"
"No," I admitted, offering a weak, apologetic smile. "I'm visiting. From New York. For the… the tennis."
"Ah, one of them fancy tennis folk from the Academy, eh?" He nodded, a glimmer of understanding. "Well, this ain't the historical society, that's for sure. That's clear across town. You best be gettin' back before someone else finds you snooping." Despite his gruffness, there was no real menace in his tone, more a weary sort of concern.
"You're absolutely right," I said, gathering my composure. "Thank you so much. I… I don't suppose you could just… forget you saw me here? It's rather embarrassing, getting lost like this." I tried a tentative, charming smile, the kind that had, in my past life, occasionally worked on unsuspecting staff.
Earl grunted. "Long as nothin's broken or missin', I ain't got no reason to report a lost lamb. Just… be more careful, miss. This ain't Fifth Avenue." He held the door open for me, a clear dismissal.
I practically fled, my cheeks burning with a mixture of relief and humiliation. It had been a close call, far too close. But I was out. And I still had Finch's journal.
Back in the sterile luxury of my academy suite, the Florida sun beating down outside seemed a world away from the dusty secrets of Finch's office. Olivia, thankfully, was nowhere to be seen, likely engaged in her poolside lounging or some other equally vapid pursuit. I locked the door, my hands still trembling slightly, and pulled out the journal.
P.F. has the first key. The second is now with the 'Rose of Sarasota' – if she still blooms.
The "first key" was clearly the locket, which had opened both the silver box and now this journal. But the "Rose of Sarasota"? Finch's words were maddeningly cryptic. A person? A place? A code word for something else entirely? If it was a person, how would I find them? If it was a place, where? Sarasota was a sizable city.
My mind raced. Roses. My grandmother, Lady Annelise, had adored them. The 'Annelise's Heart' was her signature bloom. Finch, as her solicitor and Grimshaw's associate, would have known of her passion. Could the "Rose of Sarasota" be a specific, rare rose varietal, perhaps one she'd gifted to someone here? Or a place known for its roses – a botanical garden, a private estate?
I used the academy's discreet, high-speed internet, my fingers flying across the tablet Davies had provided. Searches for "Sarasota notable rose gardens," "rare rose collectors Florida," "Annelise Vance Sarasota connections" yielded a bewildering array of possibilities, but nothing concrete. The name 'Thornecroft' in conjunction with Sarasota, however, brought up a few interesting, if dated, society page mentions: a "Thornecroft winter residence," references to a "Mrs. Evelyn Thornecroft" known for her "exquisite private gardens" and philanthropic work in the local arts scene, decades ago. Evelyn Thornecroft. Could she be the Rose of Sarasota? And was she related to the menacing Julian Thornecroft? The timeline seemed plausible for an older relative, perhaps Julian's grandmother or great-aunt.
The journal entry mentioned "if she still blooms." It implied a fragility, a potential fading. If Evelyn Thornecroft was the Rose, was she still alive? Still in Sarasota?
Another search, this time for "Evelyn Thornecroft, Sarasota, current status." The results were sparse, old. Then, a more recent, but still several years old, article from a local Sarasota lifestyle magazine: "Historic Thornecroft Estate Gardens to be Preserved by Local Conservancy." The article mentioned the passing of Mrs. Evelyn Thornecroft some years prior, and the subsequent efforts to maintain her renowned rose gardens, which housed several unique and award-winning varietals. The estate, it noted, was now managed by a private trust, with limited public access, primarily for horticultural research and special pre-booked tours.
The Thornecroft Estate Gardens. Home to unique roses. Managed by a trust. This felt… significant. Could Finch have hidden something there? The "second key" he mentioned? It was a long shot, but it was the only lead I had that directly connected roses, Sarasota, and the Thornecroft name.
But accessing a private estate, one managed by a trust and potentially still under the purview of the Thornecroft family – Julian Thornecroft's family – was an entirely different level of risk than picking the lock of a dusty, abandoned office.
My time in Sarasota was limited. Olivia's patience for my "recuperation" wouldn't last forever. I had to act quickly, but cautiously. The encrypted data chip Davies had provided… it contained detailed schematics of various security systems, untraceable communication protocols, and, most intriguingly, a list of discreet "local contacts" in several major cities, Sarasota included. The name beside the Sarasota contact was simply "Silas – Botanical Retrieval." Botanical Retrieval? It sounded like something out of a spy novel.
Was Davies more than just a butler? Had my grandmother entrusted him with far more than just the running of the Vance household? The satellite phone suddenly felt like a direct line to a hidden network I was only just beginning to perceive.
The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple. My "tennis retreat" was rapidly becoming a high-stakes espionage mission. I had Finch's journal, a cryptic clue about a "Rose of Sarasota," and a potential link to the Thornecroft family gardens. But Julian Thornecroft's shadow loomed large. Was he aware of this garden, of its potential significance? And what "thorns," sharper than ever, was Finch warning me about? The scent of Finch's old pipe tobacco seemed to cling to the journal, a ghostly reminder of a man who had tried to protect a secret, and paid a heavy price. Would I be next?