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The abbey was most magical at night. When the pond was wiped clean and transformed into a perfect sheet of black that reflected the stars across the Earth. Heaven fell from the sky each night and onto the abbey lawn.
Brother George knelt down to the trunk of a giant maple tree, knees cradled by the soft bedding of autumn leaves. He stuck a twig into the creases of a notch and cranked open the small door he had built to cover a hollow. Inside was a Visage cigar humidor, decorated with tiny pearlescent-blue mussel shells and a stuffed red dog.
He lit a cigar between his teeth, then used the flame from the lighter to illuminate the pages beneath the cigars.
Newspaper articles read: “Lowly Child Stolen from America’s Wealthiest Avenue,” “The Disappearance of the Century,” “Pourquoi la famille LeClaire a tué Annabelle Leigh,” and “Annabelle Leigh, Lost in Her Kingdom by the Sea.”
Beneath the articles was Annabelle’s diary—mostly school- girl erotica and meticulous, albeit disturbing, records of Margaux LeClaire. She wrote about the time Margaux whacked her father, the chauffeur, with a silver platter because he bought the min- iature rainbow Swedish Fish instead of the originals. One Christmas, she refused to wear stockings. Her legs froze because Margaux said nylons were for maids and Michael Jackson only.
Ten years ago, at 4:00 p.m., a townhouse camera on Sixty- Third Street caught a video of Annabelle. She paced outside of the LeClaire Mansion, appearing in and out of the security foot- age. It seemed like she was waiting for someone. But no one knew whom.
Then, at 4:09 p.m., she disappeared from the camera’s view, and that was the last anyone had ever seen of her.
One theory had Margaux LeClaire ordering Annabelle’s abduction in front of the LeClaire Mansion to raise the celebrity cachet of LeClaire Model Management. Another speculated that