If you want to save your mother's studio, you have to hand over the key to Darius Kincaid tonight, my lifelong friend Julian told me, pushing me toward the dark, roaring glass furnace where the t...
“Julian? No, that’s impossible,” I whispered, the roaring heat of the furnace making my voice feel small. The copper pendant Darius showed me, the one matching the birthmark on my shoulder, felt heavy in my palm.
Darius Kincaid, the man everyone called ‘The Dragon,’ stood up slowly from his kneeling position. His eyes, though fierce, held a deep, quiet sadness.
“His father, Arthur Halloway, systematically ruined Valery’s reputation,” Darius said, his voice raspy over the hiss of the annealing oven. “Seventeen years ago, Arthur bought out Valery’s creditors, seized her intellectual property, and spread rumors of her instability.”
My mind spun. Julian, my Julian, was just a kid then.
“And Julian?” I asked, my throat tight. “You said he took money?”
Darius walked over to a metal filing cabinet, its surface scarred by molten glass. He pulled out a yellowed folder.
“Arthur gave his seventeen-year-old son, Julian, forty-five thousand dollars from the family trust,” Darius explained, handing me a faded bank statement. “A payoff, to keep him quiet about the sabotage, to ensure his loyalty.”
The paper felt flimsy, unreal. It was dated 2007.
“Evelyn,” Darius continued, his gaze drifting to a framed photo of my adoptive mother on a nearby shelf, “She knew what the Halloways did. She took you in to protect you from the slander, the local scandal that forced Valery out of the Hudson Valley craft scene entirely.”
A wave of cold washed over me despite the furnace’s intense warmth. My mother, Evelyn, had kept this secret for so long.
I clutched the bank statement, the pendant warm against my skin. My studio felt like a stranger’s house. I needed to go home, to Evelyn’s home, and find some kind of truth there.
The next morning, I moved through Evelyn’s small office, my hands tracing the familiar patterns of her worn desk. Everything seemed ordinary. The smell of old paper and dried flowers still lingered.
I pulled open the bottom drawer, a place Evelyn always kept a messy stack of old receipts and bank statements. They were mostly utility bills, supply orders, records of small sales from the early years of the studio.
Then I saw it. Tucked beneath a pile of faded invoices from 2007, a series of receipts with a distinct, embossed seal. The Halloway family crest.
They documented monthly payments, regular and consistent, made out to Evelyn Oakwood’s Glassworks. The amounts varied slightly, but they added up. For years.
My breath hitched. Charitable donations, Julian had always called them. Little boosts to help Evelyn through tough times.
I found Julian later that afternoon in his family’s sprawling estate office, his sleeves rolled up, a neat stack of papers on his polished desk. The room was bright, filled with sunlight.
“Julian,” I said, holding out one of the receipts. My hand trembled slightly. “What are these?”
He looked up, his smile easy. “Oh, those old things? Just a little help from my family, you know.”
He leaned back in his leather chair. “Evelyn was struggling back then, after the market dip. My father felt it was our duty to support local artisans, especially someone as kind as your mother.”
His gaze was calm, unwavering.
“Charitable donations,” he repeated, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Just like I told you.”
My stomach clenched. He sounded so convincing, so genuinely concerned. But the image of Darius, kneeling in the heat, his face etched with seventeen years of searching, flashed through my mind. I was caught between two worlds, two impossible truths.
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