Chapter 8
The heavy oak door of Clara’s private study remained locked, but Marcus had long since mastered the nuances of the Vance estate's antiquated hardware. Using a thin tension wrench, he bypassed the brass mortise lock in less than ten seconds, slipping into the dark room like a shadow.
The study was designed as a sanctuary of refinement—dark mahogany bookshelves lined the walls, filled with first-edition classics and heavy leather-bound ledgers. A large mahogany desk sat before a bank of floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the crashing ocean below. But the room was in complete disarray. Drawers had been pulled halfway out, their contents spilling across the Persian rug.
Marcus clicked on a small penlight, casting a narrow beam of white light across the floor. He dropped to his knees, checking beneath the heavy Persian carpet where Clara traditionally kept her secondary document box.
Nothing. Just bare oak flooring and a thick layer of dust.
"Looking for something that doesn't belong to you, Marcus?"
Marcus gasped, dropping his penlight as it rolled away across the floor. He spun around, scrambling backward until his spine hit the mahogany bookshelf. Standing in the doorway was Eleanor. She had removed her black funeral veil, her gray hair pulled back into a severe, immaculate bun. In the dim light, her eyes looked cold, calculating, and entirely devoid of the mourning grandmother persona she had projected at the chapel.
"Eleanor," Marcus breathed, clutching his chest to steady his racing heart. "You startled me. I thought you were still in the East Wing with Arthur."
"Arthur is old and sentimental," Eleanor said, stepping into the study with slow, deliberate grace. Her black lace dress rustled softly as she closed the door behind her, sliding the brass bolt into place. "He thinks Clara was clever. He thinks she managed to outsmart us by hiding that flash drive in the lining of Lily's doll."
Marcus stared at her, his panic momentarily giving way to confusion. "You knew about the doll?"
"Of course I knew," Eleanor replied, her voice dropping into a chilly, aristocratic monotone. "I raised Derek. I know how his mind works, and I know how weak Clara was. She thought she could take half the estate, divorce him, and run off with my granddaughter to California. She thought a few bank statements and audio recordings on a thumb drive would destroy forty years of building this family's legacy."
"Derek doesn't have the drive," Marcus said, swallowing hard. "If the police find it..."
"The police won't find anything," Eleanor interrupted, her eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. "Because you are going to take the car right now, drive down to the Southside industrial facility, and make sure those documents were actually incinerated. And while you're out, you are going to retrieve that doll from Lily's room."
Marcus hesitated, the weight of the conspiracy pressing down on his shoulders like a physical burden. "Eleanor... Lily won't give it up. She carries it everywhere. And Derek is watching her like a hawk. If I try to take it by force, Derek will know."
"Derek is my son," Eleanor said, stepping closer until she was standing directly over him. "He acts out of rage and impulse. But I act out of necessity. If that drive reaches a judge's desk, we lose everything—the house, the money, the foundation. Do you understand what happens to people like us when the foundation crumbles, Marcus? We become nothing."
May you like
Before Marcus could answer, a sharp, metallic knock echoed against the heavy oak study door.
"Marcus?" Derek's deep, commanding voice called from the hallway, rattling the door handle. "Open up. I know you're in there."
