Great-Aunt Clara returned from the chest, a thick, leather-bound ledger clutched in her hands. Its pages were yellowed and fragile.
“This belonged to your mother,” Clara said, handing it to me. “She wrote in it constantly, tracking everything after she started to suspect Silas.”
My fingers trembled as I took the ledger. The familiar loops and precise angles of my mother’s handwriting filled the pages. It was like hearing her voice again, strong and clear.
I traced the words: dates, names of theaters, ticket sales, and then, stark entries detailing “unaccounted expenditures” and “revised contract clauses.” Her notes were meticulous, pointing to discrepancies in the thousands of dollars.
Silas hadn’t just been a bad manager; he had been systematically siphoning funds, forging her signature, altering agreements.
“He tried to do the same to me,” I whispered, the realization hitting me like a physical blow. “My mother saw it first.”
Grayson sat beside me, his arm a comforting weight around my shoulders. He studied the ledger over my shoulder, his brows furrowed.
Just then, a small figure bundled in a heavy wool coat burst into the cabin. It was Timmy, Caim’s eight-year-old nephew, his cheeks rosy from the cold.
“Aunt Clara!” he cried, his voice bright and breathless. “I brought you Mrs. Henderson’s pie. Papa Caim says it’s for your bad knee!”
Clara smiled warmly. “Thank you, dear. You’re a good boy.”
Timmy bounced on the balls of his feet, then looked at Grayson. “Uncle Grayson! Papa Caim says you have a new barn now. Is it bigger than the old one?”
“It is, Timmy,” Grayson replied, his voice softening. “Plenty of room.”
Timmy nodded vigorously. “That’s good! Because Mr. Oakridge told me to put a really heavy box in there for you.”
My head snapped up. Grayson’s hand tensed on my arm.
“A heavy box?” I asked, my voice strained.
Timmy nodded, completely oblivious to the sudden tension in the room. “Yeah! A black iron box. Mr. Oakridge said it was a surprise. He gave me two whole peppermint sticks for carrying it all the way out there yesterday.”
He gestured vaguely with his small hands. “He said to hide it really good, under the floorboards, so no one would find it.”
My eyes met Grayson’s. The air crackled with a new, terrifying understanding.
Silas hadn’t just *threatened* to frame Grayson. He had already *planted* the evidence. Using a child.
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