When my aunt announced there was no will and the family nodded along, I remembered Grandma Shirley saying she left one at the bank for safekeeping, so I called Monday, requested the certified reading, and watched our quiet funeral week turn into war.

I stared blankly at the glowing screen of the burner phone, utterly horrified by the terrifying implication of Grandma's final words.

My aunt was not just a greedy fraud who wanted to steal a lucrative real estate empire.

Brenda was a cold-blooded murderer who had deliberately poisoned her own mother to accelerate the inheritance timeline.

Marcus warned me quietly that proving a sophisticated murder without an official autopsy would be nearly impossible in a court of law.

A sickening wave of realization washed over me as I finally understood why Brenda had rushed the funeral arrangements.

She had demanded an immediate cremation, falsely claiming to the entire family that it was Grandma Shirley's dying wish.

All physical evidence of the tampered heart medication had been permanently reduced to ashes days ago.

I knew with absolute certainty that I had to find the real will tonight before Brenda finalized the fraudulent quitclaim deed tomorrow morning.

I begged Marcus to drive me back to the Boston Edison house, refusing to listen to his desperate warnings about the extreme danger.

He eventually relented, parking his dented sedan two dark blocks away from the property to avoid raising any suspicion.

I slipped silently through the frozen, narrow alleyway, using the deep shadows to hide my approach from the street.

I climbed carefully over the rusted chain-link fence in the backyard, landing softly in the trampled, slushy snow.

The house was completely pitch black, looking like a hollow, lifeless shell against the gloomy winter sky.

I crept onto the back porch and discovered that the heavy wooden kitchen door had been left slightly ajar.

I pushed it open with agonizing slowness, wincing internally as the old hinges let out a faint, metallic whine.

I stepped into the dark kitchen, using the dim flashlight function on the burner phone to guide my cautious steps.

The air inside the house felt heavy, smelling faintly of bleach and the lingering scent of stale cigarette smoke.

Suddenly, the wooden floorboards in the living room directly above me creaked loudly under the weight of heavy, pacing footsteps.

I froze completely in place, clicking off my flashlight and holding my breath in the terrifying darkness.

“Which daughter is yours?” should have been a harmless question

The first wineglass shattered at 8:07 p.m

The moment the mafia boss’s wife called me “an illiterate servant,”

Someone was aggressively descending the main staircase, their boots thudding softly against the carpeted wood.

Before I could turn around to run back out the open door, a strong, gloved hand clamped violently over my mouth.

Chapter 7 - The Midnight Return