Chapter 3: The Hidden Drawer
Morning light did nothing to warm the stone walls of the estate. At breakfast, the long mahogany dining table felt like a frozen river separating Mom, Richard, and me. Silver chafing dishes gleamed with untouched eggs and bacon, but the air was thick with unspoken tension. Richard scanned the financial section of The Wall Street Journal, occasionally sipping black coffee without looking up. Mom stared at her teacup, her face pale, exhausted from the weight of grief and the oppressive atmosphere of the house.
"I have meetings at the downtown headquarters until late this evening," Richard said without lowering his paper. "Marcus will be here to oversee the inventory of Arthur's personal study in the West Wing. Clara, I expect you to assist him with sorting through your father's personal effects. Keep it efficient. Most of his old papers are just sentimental clutter destined for the incinerator."
Mom opened her mouth to speak, but closed it again, nodding stiffly. Richard stood, buttoned his suit jacket, and strode out of the room without another word. The heavy front door slammed shut a moment later, vibrating through the floorboards.
As soon as Marcus retreated to his makeshift office in the sunroom to field morning calls, Mom retreated upstairs with a headache, leaving me alone in the vast, echoing silence of the main hall. My mind raced back to the words whispered in the library the night before: digital encryption keys, missing four million, Cayman shell company. Grandfather Arthur hadn't just died; he had been building a fortress of evidence against his own son, and Richard was desperately hunting for it before we stumbled upon the truth.
I walked with deliberate, quiet footsteps toward the West Wing, a section of the house closed off during our initial tour. The heavy double doors leading to Arthur Vance's private study were unlocked—Marcus must have left them open while fetching coffee. I slipped inside, closing the door behind me with a soft click.
The study smelled of aged leather, pipe tobacco, and old paper. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined the walls, filled with heavy leather-bound volumes on industrial history and economics. Arthur’s massive mahogany executive desk sat beneath a tall arched window overlooking the overgrown rose gardens. It was shockingly neat—too neat. Richard had clearly already searched the surface.
May you like
I walked behind the desk, running my fingers along the carved wooden trim. Remembering the mystery novels I used to check out from the local public library back in Ohio, I pressed my palm against the lower edge of the oak paneling. With a faint, metallic click, a hidden shallow drawer slid open beneath the center writing surface.
Inside lay a single object: a heavy, outdated black smartphone, its battery completely dead, resting beside a handwritten index card filled with a string of alphanumeric characters. My breath caught in my throat. This wasn't Arthur's personal daily phone; this was the vault.
