Marcus’s jaw tightened. Patricia’s eyes narrowed in the way people do when they see the full pattern click into place.
We drove to my father’s house in Mount Pleasant that night, after Victoria had gone to a “charity committee meeting.”
The house felt different without her in it. Less staged. More like the home I’d grown up in, though so much had been rearranged.
My father led us to the study. His hands trembled as he tried the key in the drawer.
It didn’t work.
Victoria had changed the lock.
My father stared at it, face flushing with humiliation. “She—she must’ve—”
“It’s okay,” Marcus said gently. “We can handle it legally.”
But I didn’t want legal later. I wanted truth now.
I knelt in front of the drawer, pulled a thin metal tool from my purse, and slipped it into the seam.
My father blinked. “Where did you—”
“Consulting,” I murmured. “You learn skills.”
The lock clicked open with a soft snap.
Inside were neatly stacked folders—property documents, banking information, passports. And underneath them, wrapped in a faded scarf I recognized instantly, was an envelope.
My mother’s handwriting.
My breath caught so hard it felt like drowning.
I lifted it carefully, like it might crumble.