Sixteen-year-old Toby Gentry races to uncover $4.2 million in stolen underworld assets after his pregnant sister-in-law disappears from a locked Charleston cellar, exposing a deadly family conspira...
The sound of Maeve’s voice, calm and even, echoed slightly in the narrow passage. I froze, pressing myself against the cold, damp bricks. The faint light from the cellar was long gone, leaving me in total darkness.
I crept forward, inch by agonizing inch, the “Baby Toby” blanket clutched tight in my hand. The voices grew clearer.
“He won’t even realize it’s gone,” Maeve said, her tone almost casual. “The old fool always kept them tucked away, thinking no one knew.”
A gruff voice responded. “Are you sure this is everything, Maeve? Silas wants assurances. We can’t risk any loose ends.”
“Every deed, every title, every last shred of ownership documentation for the Broad Street properties,” Maeve confirmed. Her voice had an edge I hadn’t heard before, sharp and calculating. “They’re all here, safe and sound. The Gentrys have nothing left but debt.”
My blood ran cold. Deeds? Titles? She was talking about the family’s entire real estate empire. My family’s empire.
“The old man won’t be happy,” the gruff voice chuckled. “He built this place piece by piece. Now, it’s all yours.”
“It was the only way to get them,” Maeve continued, ignoring the comment. “Being locked up gave me the cover I needed. No one would question a pregnant, distraught bride.”
The realization hit me like a physical blow. She wasn’t a victim. She’d *let* Julian lock her in the cellar. She’d used it as a cover story. The pregnancy test, the ring, the torn photo—all of it a performance. A way to get past the family’s security, to access this hidden passage, and whatever safe lay beneath the foundations.
“The offshore transfers are already initiated,” Maeve added, her voice dropping to a whisper. “The $4.2 million is almost untraceable. Garrity did his part, moving the funds into Silas’s accounts, then into mine.”
I gasped silently. Julian Garrity, the appraiser. He was involved. And $4.2 million. It wasn’t just deeds; it was cash. Stolen.
A metallic click echoed in the passage. “Good work,” the man said. “Now, let’s get this digital drive wiped and move on. Silas is waiting.”
I heard shuffling, the rustle of clothing. A small, smooth object slipped from Maeve’s grasp, landing with a soft thud on the damp stone floor near where I was hiding. It was a digital flash drive.
My chance.
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