Fifteen years ago, my mother vanished during a land dispute, and everyone told me she died in the freezing waters of Mist Creek.
The scent of antique leather and old paper usually brought me a quiet calm in Oakhaven Manor’s library. Not today.
Marcus Pryor sat across from me, a grim set to his jaw. Beside him, Arthur Pendelton, a man whose forensic appraisal firm I knew only by reputation, fidgeted with a stack of documents.
My mind still replayed Clara’s horrified face, the diamond brooch glinting under Eleanor’s mattress. Eleanor’s vacant stare. Her whisper about a shadow. It felt like a bad dream.
“Julian, we have a serious problem,” Marcus said, his voice cutting through my thoughts.
Pendelton cleared his throat, pushing a thick folder across the polished mahogany. “Mr. Kincaid, my firm was retained by Mr. Pryor for an urgent audit of Pryor & Kincaid Restoration’s historical assets.”
I picked up the top document. It was a formal tax assessment, dated fifteen years ago.
Below the official seals, a signature I knew all too well leapt out at me: Eleanor Kincaid.
“This is impossible,” I said, my voice thin. “My mother vanished fifteen years ago. She couldn’t have signed anything.”
Pendelton’s gaze remained flat. “These are certified tax documents, Mr. Kincaid. A series of personal liabilities, backed by Pryor & Kincaid assets, totaling one point four million dollars.”
He gestured to a series of lines. “Signed and notarized, detailing a staggered repayment schedule that begins, rather inconveniently, today.”
A cold dread seeped into my bones, far deeper than the previous night’s chill. This wasn’t just a missing brooch. This was an avalanche.
“One point four million dollars?” I repeated, the number heavy on my tongue. “What kind of liabilities?”
Marcus leaned forward, his elbows on the desk. “Old land disputes, Kincaid family debts. These were dormant, Julian, buried deep in your family’s estate papers until this audit dug them up.”
His eyes held mine, unblinking. “If the state board sees this, if we can’t make these payments immediately, they’ll launch an investigation.”
A tremor ran through me. “An investigation into what?”
“Fraudulent claims, misuse of company assets,” Marcus said, his voice unnervingly calm. “You, as the senior partner, will lose your architect’s license. The firm, what little we’ve rebuilt, will face bankruptcy.”
My throat tightened. After all the work, all the sobriety, the meticulous rebuilding of Pryor & Kincaid. It could all vanish, just like that.
I clenched my jaw, studying the documents again. Eleanor’s signature, so familiar, yet tied to something so impossibly devious.
My hands began to tremble.
Suddenly, an icy blast swept through the room, raising goosebumps on my arms. It wasn’t a draft. The air grew heavy, almost metallic.
A small, antique reel-to-reel tape recorder, sitting on a high shelf tucked away behind a row of dusty encyclopedias, spontaneously clicked. The spindles began to turn with a soft whirring sound.
Pendelton flinched, his eyes darting to the machine. Marcus simply ignored it, his gaze fixed on my face.
The recorder continued to spin, capturing only the blank static of the unnaturally cold library air.
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