Chapter 4: The Linen Closet Confession
I grabbed the heavy black smartphone and the index card, sliding them deep into the front pocket of my jeans. My hands were damp with sweat, and my heart hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I had the key—or at least the start of one. But as I turned to slip out of the study, heavy footsteps echoed down the high-ceilinged hallway outside.
Marcus.
There was no time to make it back to the door without being seen through the glass panes. Panic flared hot and sharp in my chest. To my left, a heavy velvet tapestry hung over a recessed utility alcove housing the estate's old radiator pipes. I dove behind it, pressing my back flat against the cold plaster wall just as the study door creaked open.
Marcus’s heavy loafers crunched on the hardwood floor. He didn't walk toward the desk; instead, he stopped near the doorway, his phone pressed to his ear. The murmur of his voice was low, laced with a venomous urgency that made my skin crawl.
"I'm telling you, the kid is poking around," Marcus muttered into the receiver, pacing near the bookshelf. "Clara is useless, but the boy has that stubborn look in his eye. Arthur spent his last three months meeting with federal investigators and independent forensic accountants. If any of those encrypted files survived the purge, Richard's entire board seat—and our liquidity—is gone."
A pause stretched as the person on the other end spoke. Marcus let out a harsh, bitter laugh.
"No, don't involve security yet. It looks too messy before probate is finalized. Just keep an eye on their rooms tonight. If we find any notebooks, flash drives, or anything else old Arthur might have stashed away, we take it. Richard wants absolute control by Friday, or the SEC inquiry gets unsealed."
The threat hung in the air, cold and absolute. They weren't just trying to cheat us out of our inheritance; they were running a criminal enterprise using the Vance name as a shield, and anyone who threatened exposure was an obstacle to be managed.
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My fingers curled around the dead smartphone in my pocket, the sharp edges of the index card digging into my thigh. I stood frozen behind the velvet drape, breathing through my nose, forcing every muscle in my body to remain motionless until Marcus finally grunted, hung up his phone, and strode out of the study, slamming the door behind him.
When the silence returned, I waited three full minutes before slipping out of the alcove. I didn't go back to the guest wing. Instead, I climbed the back service stairs, my mind racing with a terrifying clarity: we had three days before Richard locked us out permanently, and the dead phone in my pocket was our only weapon.
