The anger from the executive briefing fueled a new kind of resolve. Cassandra wanted me gone? Fine. But I wouldn’t go quietly.
My research into the Brightwood family history became my new obsession. I scoured old articles, corporate records, anything I could find online about the company’s founding members.
Arthur’s name appeared often, of course, but another kept surfacing: Martha Brightwood. Arthur’s great-aunt, a former ceremonial board member, renowned for her sharp mind and an unusual passion for historical preservation.
More importantly, she was known as a reclusive figure, living in a rarely seen wing of the sprawling Brightwood estate. Estate staff knew her, of course, but visitors were unheard of.
I tried calling the general estate line, asking to be put through to Aunt Martha. “Mrs. Brightwood prefers her solitude,” the receptionist said politely but firmly, “and doesn’t take unsolicited calls.”
I tried sending a letter, then a polite email. Both went unanswered, or rather, were answered by polite refusals from a different, unseen assistant.
It was clear. Aunt Martha was guarded, isolated, and incredibly difficult to reach. But something in that anonymous email, combined with the cabinet’s symbol, told me she held a key.
She was my last, best hope.
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