The tension inside The Anchorage was a living thing, buzzing in the air. Every creak of the old house, every whisper from Hicks’s men, felt magnified. Marcus had disappeared into the east wing again. Leo remained in the parlor, quiet and still, shaken by Marcus’s threat.
Auditor Sikes was due any moment. I knew Marcus would try to solidify his position before Sikes arrived, especially after Leo’s discovery.
Suddenly, Marcus’s voice cut through the intercom. “Secure Arthur Pendelton. He needs to be confined to the basement archives until the auditor arrives. For his own safety.”
My ‘safety.’ A transparent attempt to keep me from speaking to Sikes.
Two of Marcus’s personal guards, hulking men in dark suits, immediately moved toward me. One was a broad-shouldered man named Radek, with a scar running across his cheek. The other, younger, just nodded at Radek.
“Alright, old man,” Radek grunted. “Downstairs.”
I didn’t move. “I’m going nowhere.”
Radek took a step closer, his hand reaching for my arm. I pivoted, a move ingrained from decades of avoiding grabs in tight spaces. He was too slow. My elbow flicked, catching him in the ribs.
He staggered back, surprised. The younger guard moved to flank me.
“He’s resisting!” Radek yelled, recovering quickly.
I ducked under the younger guard’s arm, moving towards the heavy stone fireplace. It was ancient, built of rough-hewn Michigan granite, a central feature of the original 1982 structure.
Radek lunged, trying to tackle me. I twisted, using his momentum against him. My shoulder hit the fireplace mantle hard.
A loud thud echoed through the room.
The impact jarred something loose within the stone. A section of the fireplace facade, just above the hearth, shuddered. A small, hollowed copper electrical junction box, ancient and green with patina, tumbled out from a hidden cavity. It landed with a soft clang on the slate hearth.
It had been sealed into the wall, tucked neatly behind a loose stone, since the house was built.
Radek paused, staring at the unexpected object. The younger guard exchanged a confused glance with him. This wasn’t part of the plan.
I knelt, ignoring the searing pain in my shoulder. My fingers, accustomed to intricate mechanisms, pried open the corroded latch on the copper box.
Inside, nestled on a bed of dry, crumbling insulation, was a roll of parchment. Yellowed with age, brittle to the touch.
The original physical foundation charter.
It was tied with a thin, faded red ribbon. The paper itself felt substantial, thick. Hand-drawn diagrams and careful script were visible through the translucent parchment.
Hicks, who had been observing from the foyer, strode purposefully into the parlor. His eyes, usually impassive, widened slightly as he saw the ancient scroll.
“What is that?” he asked, his voice low.
Marcus, drawn by the commotion, appeared at the parlor entrance, his face darkening as he saw the parchment in my hand. He knew, instinctively, that this was something significant. Something he had never accounted for.
I carefully unrolled it, the crackle of old paper filling the silence. The scent of aged ink and dry cedar permeated the air.
Twist: Arthur accidentally knocks over an old copper electrical junction box while dodging an enforcer, discovering the original physical 1982 foundation charter tucked inside.
This was it. The real deed. The one that predated Marcus, predated his ambition, predated his lies.
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