Chapter 14 - The Hidden Ledger
Leaving Rosie with a trusted neighbor—a retired schoolteacher who thought I was just working a late shift—I drove toward the wealthy suburbs where my childhood home stood. The massive, sprawling estate was dark, cordoned off by yellow police tape.
I parked two blocks away and approached the house through the dense woods at the back of the property, a path I had used countless times as a teenager sneaking out. My heart hammered against my ribs, each snap of a twig sounding like a gunshot in the silent night.
I slipped past the police tape and approached the rear cellar door. I knew the security system inside and out; it was a vintage setup my father refused to upgrade because he didn't trust modern digital networks. I bypassed the magnetic sensor with a trick I’d learned years ago and slipped into the damp darkness of the basement.
The house smelled of stale air and lingering expensive cologne. It felt like a tomb. I crept up the stairs, my flashlight beam cutting through the oppressive gloom, making my way to my father's study. The police had already tossed the room. Drawers were pulled out, papers were scattered across the mahogany desk, and the artwork had been removed from the walls.
They had found the obvious safes. But they hadn't found the one that mattered.
My father was a creature of habit and hidden compartments. I moved to the massive oak bookshelf lining the far wall. I counted three shelves down, five books across, and pulled on a heavy, leather-bound copy of "The Wealth of Nations." A faint click echoed in the silent room, and a small section of the wood paneling popped open.
Inside rested a heavy, fireproof lockbox. I input the combination—my mother's maiden name translated to numbers—and the lid sprang open.
There it was. The ledger. A thick, black notebook overflowing with names, dates, and account numbers. I quickly flipped through the pages. It documented everything. But more importantly, the final pages were filled with recent entries in a different handwriting. Looping, elegant, and meticulous.
Bethany's handwriting.
She had been running the illicit side of the business for the past year while our father’s health declined. It was the undeniable proof I needed. She wasn't a victim; she was the new boss.
May you like
I shoved the ledger into my backpack, a triumphant surge of adrenaline rushing through me. But as I turned back toward the study door, the floorboards in the hallway creaked.
A shadow filled the doorway. I wasn't alone.
