Her Fiancé's Ex Crashed My Wedding Prep With a Supernatural Warning, Unveiling My Stepmother's Dark Secret
Mrs. Davies’s abrupt departure left me with a bitter taste in my mouth, but also a hardening resolve. If records were being suppressed at the library, I would go to the source: the town council. The original blueprints for the Albright estate, detailing every structural element, every foundation, had to be somewhere.
I marched into the town hall, a plain brick building dwarfed by the grander, older structures around it. The reception area was bustling with citizens, but I bypassed the queue, heading directly to the councilman’s office.
Councilman Harold Peterson was exactly as I remembered him from local fundraisers: jovial, portly, with a booming laugh and an ever-present sheen of perspiration on his brow. He looked up from a stack of papers, his smile momentarily faltering when he saw me.
“Eleanor Albright!” he exclaimed, rising from his chair, extending a plump hand. “To what do we owe the pleasure? Not here about that new zoning proposal, are we? Already approved, I’m afraid.”
His handshake was surprisingly firm, yet his eyes held a guarded quality. I cut straight to the chase.
“Councilman Peterson, I need access to the original architectural blueprints for the Albright estate,” I stated, keeping my voice firm and businesslike. “Specifically, the earliest records of its construction.”
His jovial demeanor instantly evaporated. He slowly withdrew his hand, his smile replaced by a thoughtful frown. He cleared his throat, adjusting his tie.
“The Albright estate blueprints, you say,” he murmured, his gaze shifting to a framed certificate on his wall, then back to me. “Well, that’s certainly an unusual request.”
“I’m merely trying to understand the history of my family’s home,” I explained, trying to keep my frustration in check. “There are some… peculiarities I’m investigating.”
He leaned back in his chair, making the springs creak. He steepled his fingers, his eyes narrowed slightly.
“Peculiarities, you say,” he repeated, drawing out the word. “Well, the town has a robust historical preservation policy, of course. These old documents, you understand, they’re quite fragile.”
He paused, fiddling with a pen on his desk. It was an elaborate stalling tactic, a performance I recognized from years of dealing with bureaucratic roadblocks.
“I assure you, I’ll be careful,” I countered. “I’m a historian myself. I understand the value of preservation.”
Peterson sighed, then pushed himself forward, resting his elbows on the desk. He leaned in conspiratorially, his voice dropping.
“Look, Eleanor, I’d love to help, truly,” he said, his tone suddenly laced with false sympathy. “But those files… well, they’re not easily accessed. We’ve had a bit of a reshuffle in our archives lately, you see. Moving things around, digitizing. It’s quite a process.”
He picked up a small, ornamental paperweight, a cheap, plastic replica of the town hall itself, and began to polish it with his thumb. It was a trivial action, but it showed his complete disregard for my urgent request.
“So, they’re just ‘misplaced’?” I asked, my voice edged with disbelief.
“Temporarily misplaced,” he corrected, offering a thin-lipped smile. “Among other, shall we say, ‘historical preservation concerns.’ There’s a particular section that requires extensive review before public access can be granted.”
The phrasing was vague, designed to deter further questioning. His eyes darted nervously towards the door, then back to me, confirming my suspicion that he was under instruction.
“And who determines these ‘historical preservation concerns’?” I pressed, sensing Gwendolyn’s hand in this.
He cleared his throat again, avoiding my gaze. “The council, of course. Guided by… experienced counsel. We must protect our town’s heritage, after all.”
The mention of “experienced counsel” was almost certainly Gwendolyn. She was renowned for hiring the best legal minds, not for their ethics, but for their ability to weave bureaucratic tangles. This was more than just a denial; it was a deliberate, calculated obstruction. It was a blatant abuse of power, a small-town official leveraging his position to serve a more powerful interest.
“When can I expect these files to be ‘un-misplaced’?” I asked, my voice tight with frustration.
He shrugged, spreading his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “Oh, could be weeks. Months, even. With all the red tape, you know how it is.”
He stood up, signaling the end of our conversation, and walked around his desk, intending to usher me out. As he passed, I noticed a subtle, almost imperceptible detail. Tucked into his jacket pocket, peeking out just slightly, was a crisp, folded hundred-dollar bill. It was new, uncreased, and out of place for his usual rumpled attire. The sight of it solidified my understanding. This wasn’t just incompetence; it was corruption. Gwendolyn’s corrupt influence had reached the very heart of the town, bribing a local authority figure to obstruct my investigation. The petty cruelty of it was how casually he displayed his ill-gotten gain, how brazenly he denied me the truth for a paltry sum.
“I see,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
I turned and walked out, the sounds of his jovial, booming laughter resuming as soon as the door swung shut behind me. The laughter felt like a mockery, a triumphant cackle from Gwendolyn herself, echoing through the empty halls of the town hall. I was alone, blocked at every turn, but my resolve had only hardened.
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