The weight of the iron box and its contents felt heavier than lead. Silas’s scheme was laid bare: forged deeds, fabricated ledgers, all carefully constructed to frame Grayson for grand larceny.
We couldn’t waste another moment. The Cheyenne Sheriff’s office was expecting Silas to file charges any day.
“We need to take this to someone who can help,” I said, looking at Grayson. “Someone with authority.”
Grayson nodded, his jaw set. “Prosecutor Thomas Aldrich. He’s known for being honest. Fair.”
The next morning, the blizzard had arrived. Wind howled around the cabin, rattling the windows, and snow piled high against the door. The roads were impassable.
“We can’t wait,” I insisted, peering out at the swirling white. “Every hour that passes is another hour Silas has to press his case.”
Grayson, ever practical, hitched the strongest of his horses to a smaller, enclosed sleigh, meant for navigating deep snow. He packed blankets, a thermos of hot coffee, and a small ax.
The journey to Cheyenne was brutal. The cold seeped through our thickest layers. The sleigh rocked and swayed, visibility was almost zero, and the wind bit at any exposed skin. My throat ached from the frigid air I breathed.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, we reached the outskirts of Cheyenne. The town was eerily quiet, buried under a fresh blanket of snow.
We found Prosecutor Thomas Aldrich’s office in a small brick building near the courthouse. He was a stern-faced man with keen eyes, his desk piled high with legal documents.
“Mrs. Garcia,” he said, indicating the chair opposite him. His gaze flickered to Grayson. “Mr. Garcia. What can I do for you?”
“We have evidence,” I stated, placing the heavy iron box on his desk with a thud that echoed in the quiet office. “Evidence of Silas Oakridge’s crimes.”
Aldrich’s eyebrows rose slightly. He watched as Grayson unlatched the box and spread the contents across the polished wood.
He picked up the forged deed for the Grand Theatre, then the ledgers detailing the “missing” $100,000. His eyes narrowed as he examined the handwriting, comparing it to other documents on his desk.
“These are quite intricate forgeries,” Aldrich murmured, his expression unreadable. He then picked up my mother’s ledger. “And these counter-records… your mother was a remarkably astute woman, Mrs. Garcia.”
I explained Timmy’s innocent confession, the peppermint sticks, and Silas’s cynical use of the child.
Aldrich listened, his face growing grimmer with each detail. He paused, tapping a finger on the forged signature of Grayson.
“Mr. Oakridge had quite a plan,” Aldrich finally said, his voice cold. “Framing a man, manipulating a child, stealing a woman’s inheritance… all to secure a stage career.”
He looked up at us, his eyes hard. “This is compelling. Very compelling. With this, we have enough to issue an arrest warrant for Silas Oakridge.”
My shoulders sagged with relief. A warrant. It meant he couldn’t just walk away.
“However,” Aldrich continued, holding up a hand, “for this to stand, we need your formal deposition, Mrs. Garcia. Under oath. As soon as possible.”
He glanced out the window, where the blizzard still raged. “The court is holding an emergency preliminary hearing tomorrow morning, due to the severe weather affecting travel. It’s the only window for weeks.”
A wave of exhaustion washed over me. My throat was already raw from the cold journey. The thought of speaking, singing almost, for a formal deposition in that freezing court filled me with dread.
But there was no choice. Grayson’s freedom, my mother’s legacy, it all hinged on my voice.
“I’ll be there,” I said, my voice hoarse. “Tomorrow morning.”
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