Chapter 1 - The Heir Up the Stairs
The creak of the floorboards echoed like a gunshot in the tense silence of the study.
I didn't reach for a weapon—I didn’t need one. My eyes locked onto the doorway as Derek, Sylvia’s twenty-something son, stepped into the light. He was wearing my father’s vintage Rolex and a cashmere sweater that was too broad for his narrow, slumping shoulders. In his hand, he clutched a thick leather briefcase.
"What is going on down here?" Derek demanded, though his voice cracked on the final syllable. He looked past me, his eyes landing on the empty safe, and the color drained from his face.
"Derek," Sylvia barked, her composure fracturing. "Take that out to the car. Now."
I stepped sideways, blocking the only exit. "Nobody is leaving this house."
Derek froze, his eyes darting between his mother and me. He had always been a coward, the kind of boy who hid behind Sylvia's designer skirts whenever there were consequences to face.
"Move, Sarah," Derek stammered, trying to sound authoritative. "You don't live here anymore."
"I'm going to give you three seconds to put that briefcase on the desk," I said, my voice dropping to that dead, emotionless register they teach you in interrogations. "One."
"Mom!" Derek whined.
"Two."
Derek practically threw the briefcase onto the mahogany desk. Sylvia shrieked in frustration, lunging forward, but Thomas, the security chief, stepped into the room. His imposing frame filled the doorway.
"Dr. Evans is here, Sergeant," Thomas announced, his eyes fixed coldly on Sylvia. "He’s examining Margaret in the living room. The police are on their way."
Sylvia’s perfectly painted lips curled into a sneer. "You called the police? Over a misunderstanding with a senile old woman? You’re making a fool of yourself, Sarah. I have power of attorney."
"You have a forged signature," I corrected, picking up the heavy brass key Grandma had given me. I looked at the grandfather clock in the corner of the room. It was the one my father obsessed over, the one that had suspiciously stopped at 1:43 a.m.
May you like
I walked over to the clock, ignoring Sylvia's sudden, frantic protests. At the base of the wooden casing, hidden beneath a decorative molding, was a tiny brass keyhole. I slid the key in. It turned with a satisfying click.
Inside the false bottom lay the contents of the missing folder.
