After four years behind bars, I came home hoping for nothing more than to hug my father, but my stepmother opened the front door and said, “He passed away eight months ago. This property belongs to me now.” I silently walked to the graveyard with an old key in my pocket, completely unaware that the caretaker was about to whisper something that would shatter my reality.

Silas Vance’s mansion looked like a modern-day castle. High walls, security cameras sweeping the perimeter, and two armed guards patrolling the front gate.

"I can disable the cameras for exactly three minutes," Sloane said, typing furiously on her laptop in the parked car. "But you have to get over that wall and through the side door before the system reboots."

"Three minutes is a lifetime," I muttered, shedding my tuxedo jacket. I was dressed in black slacks and a tight black t-shirt.

"Go!" Sloane whispered.

I bolted across the street, launching myself at the ten-foot stone wall. My hands gripped the rough edge, and I hauled myself over, dropping silently into the manicured garden on the other side.

I sprinted to the side entrance, picking the lock with a tension wrench and rake I had bought earlier that night. The heavy oak door clicked open with thirty seconds to spare.

I slipped inside, pulling a small flashlight from my pocket.

The mansion was an absolute museum. Suits of armor, priceless paintings, and rows of antique furniture. I moved silently through the grand hallways, my eyes scanning the shadows.

Finally, I saw it.

Standing in the corner of a massive study, illuminated by the moonlight filtering through the windows, was my father’s antique mahogany grandfather clock.

I rushed over, dropping to my knees. I ran my fingers along the bottom of the heavy wooden base. My father had shown me the secret compartment when I was ten years old. You had to press two specific rosettes carved into the wood simultaneously.

Click.

A small wooden panel dropped away.

I reached into the hollow space and my fingers brushed against cold leather. I pulled it out. It was a small, black, leather-bound ledger. I opened it, shining my flashlight on the pages.

Rows and rows of hand-written transactions, account numbers, and passwords. Evelyn’s handwriting. It was a complete roadmap of her thievery.

I shoved the ledger into my waistband.