My Mother Sent Five Lawyers to Strip My Inheritance — She Didn't Know My Military Intel Training Had Prepared Me for the Manor's Ancient Secrets
A few days later, my phone rang. The caller ID displayed “Elias Croft.” The Hardings’ lawyer. My stomach tightened.
“Evelyn,” he said, his voice surprisingly soft, a stark contrast to his usual crisp, formal tone. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“What can I do for you, Mr. Croft?” I asked, keeping my voice neutral, detached.
“I was hoping we could have a private meeting,” he responded, a hint of unease in his voice. “Regarding the complexities of your father’s estate. There are… certain aspects that require a delicate touch.”
I knew what he was hinting at. He was probing, trying to gauge my knowledge of Stonehaven’s true nature, its “less conventional assets.” Eleanor and Walter had likely pressured him to assess how much I understood about my father’s “eccentricities.”
“I’m happy to discuss any legal complexities,” I replied, a carefully constructed innocence in my tone. “I’ve been reviewing some of my father’s historical property law texts, trying to get up to speed. It’s all quite dense, isn’t it?”
I chose my words carefully, deflecting his true intent. I wanted him to believe I was merely a novice, an outsider grappling with the sheer volume of legal jargon. My military intelligence training had taught me the value of misinformation, of letting the enemy believe what they wanted to believe.
Croft paused, and I could almost hear the gears turning in his head. “Indeed, Ms. Reed. Stonehaven’s history is… unique. Particularly its original charter.”
“The language is so archaic,” I said, feigning a sigh. “All those references to ‘ancestral covenants’ and ‘sacred trusts.’ One almost wonders if they’re discussing a medieval kingdom, not a piece of prime real estate.”
I let him believe I dismissed these terms as mere archaic legalese, quaint and irrelevant. This was the misunderstanding I needed to cultivate. Croft, after all, was a lawyer. He dealt in facts, in documents, in the tangible. He wouldn’t believe in “Whispering Stones” unless they had a deed.
“Precisely,” he said, sounding somewhat relieved. “But these old documents, while perhaps overly poetic, do establish certain… protocols.”
“Which I am eager to understand fully,” I assured him. “My father was meticulous about these things. I wouldn’t want to inadvertently violate any historical nuances.”
I could sense his internal struggle. He was trying to maintain his professional integrity while under pressure from the Hardings. He was likely walking a fine line, trying to appear helpful to them while also ensuring he didn’t commit a professional misstep himself.
“Perhaps we could meet for coffee tomorrow morning,” he suggested. “Away from the manor. Say, the old café in town, The Gilded Spoon, at nine?”
“Nine will be fine,” I agreed. “I look forward to shedding some light on these… historical nuances.”
After we hung up, I leaned back in my chair, a small smile playing on my lips. Elias Croft was uneasy. That was good. It meant he wasn’t completely in the Hardings’ pocket.
My mind replayed his careful wording, his subtle emphasis on “complexities” and “delicate touch.” It wasn’t just about my understanding of the inheritance. He had probably seen something.
The ledger was still on my desk, open to a section my father had cryptically labeled “Walter’s Shadow.” I’d begun deciphering it this morning. It detailed Walter’s reckless financial dealings, his mounting gambling debts, and his increasingly frantic attempts to liquidate assets.
My father had even noted a specific transaction: the sale of an “unnamed artifact” for a shockingly low price, well below market value for even a regular antique, let alone something priceless like the Guardian’s Key. This was the same transaction I suspected involved the Obsidian carving.
Croft, as the Hardings’ lawyer, would have access to all Walter’s financial paperwork. He would have seen the declared value of the “worthless antique.” He would have noticed the discrepancy between what Walter claimed and what the item truly represented, even if he didn’t know its supernatural significance. His professional conscience would be pricked by the obvious financial irregularity.
A lawyer, especially one like Croft, valued reputation above all else. He wouldn’t want to be implicated in any fraudulent activity. He wouldn’t want his name associated with financial malfeasance. Walter’s actions were surely approaching that threshold.
This was not a betrayal by Croft, not yet. This was a man trying to protect his own skin, to mitigate his own potential legal exposure. He was an enabler, yes, but a reluctant one, and his fear of repercussions was growing.
I spent the rest of the evening cross-referencing my father’s notes with what I knew of Walter’s general financial habits. The picture that emerged was one of escalating desperation. Walter was a man drowning, and he was pulling Eleanor down with him.
The casual way Eleanor had dismissed the Obsidian carving, the way Walter had practically given it away, now made perfect, chilling sense. He hadn’t cared about its true value or its significance to the estate. He had just needed liquid cash, fast, to keep his creditors at bay.
The meeting with Croft tomorrow wasn’t just an information-gathering exercise for him. It was a veiled warning, a subtle olive branch. He wanted to know how much I knew, not just to report back to Eleanor, but to understand his own position, his own vulnerability.
My objective was clear: give him just enough to worry, but not enough to panic. Let him realize the depth of the hole Walter was digging, without revealing the supernatural core of Stonehaven. Let his own professional ethics do the heavy lifting.
The fate of Stonehaven, and the truth of my father’s legacy, rested on a delicate balance of legal maneuvering and subtle psychological warfare. And Elias Croft, for all his initial complicity, might just be the reluctant pawn we needed. He was a professional, and Walter Harding was making a mockery of professionalism.
I just needed to fan the flames of his conscience, ever so gently. The stakes were far higher than he, or the Hardings, could possibly imagine.
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