Sixteen-year-old Toby Gentry races to uncover $4.2 million in stolen underworld assets after his pregnant sister-in-law disappears from a locked Charleston cellar, exposing a deadly family conspira...
Bram drove the van with a grim determination. The words “destroying the original paper deeds” echoed in my head. Garrity was about to erase all evidence of Silas’s scheme and our family’s rightful ownership.
“We have to stop him,” I said, my voice urgent. “He can’t destroy those deeds.”
Maeve nodded, her usual cynicism replaced by a rare flicker of urgency. “He’s the weak link in Silas’s operation. If we get those original deeds, we have leverage.”
Bram took a sharp turn, the tires squealing softly. “His estate is on the outskirts, off the old King’s Highway. Security’s minimal, just a caretaker. But he’ll be working fast.”
Minutes later, the van pulled silently into a dense thicket of palmettos and Spanish moss, a few hundred yards from a sprawling, dimly lit waterfront estate. The air here was heavy with the scent of salt marsh and blooming jasmine.
“I’ll create a diversion,” Bram said, grabbing a toolkit from the back. “He’ll have motion sensors, but I know how to trip them without alerting anyone immediately. Gives you a few minutes.”
He slipped out, a shadow disappearing into the darkness. Maeve and I exchanged a look. This was it.
We moved quickly, darting between overgrown hedges and ancient oaks. The house itself was grand, but looked neglected, a relic of old money. A single light glowed in what looked like a study or library on the ground floor.
I peered through a tall window. Julian Garrity sat at a massive mahogany desk, stacks of old documents surrounding him. A small, portable shredder whirred beside him, spitting out confetti. He was wearing reading glasses, his brow furrowed in concentration.
“He’s already started,” Maeve whispered, her hand on the windowpane.
We found an unlocked service entrance around the back. The kitchen was dark and silent. We crept through, my heart pounding in my ears. The rich scent of old leather and dust grew stronger as we approached the library.
Garrity was engrossed, feeding another document into the shredder. He didn’t hear us.
I stepped into the doorway. “Garrity!”
He jumped, dropping a sheaf of papers. His head snapped up, eyes wide behind his glasses. “Who—who are you?”
Maeve appeared beside me, her expression cold. “We’re here for the original property titles, Julian. The ones with the subterranean access clause.”
Garrity’s face crumpled. “No! Silas will kill me!”
“Silas will kill you anyway for getting caught,” Maeve countered, stepping further into the room. “We can offer you a way out. But first, the deeds.”
He stammered, his eyes darting to the shredder, then to the stacks of paper. “I… I destroyed most of them.”
“Not the originals,” I said, pointing to a heavy, iron-bound chest tucked beneath the desk. “The ones you keep hidden. The ones that tie Silas’s operation to his shell companies and your forged paperwork.”
Garrity visibly flinched. He looked between Maeve and me, then back at the chest. His hands trembled as he slowly knelt, fumbling with a small, brass key he pulled from his pocket.
The lock clicked. He lifted the heavy lid. Inside, nestled among other documents, were several thick, parchment scrolls. They looked ancient. One of them, rolled tight, had a faded wax seal.
“This is it,” he whispered, his voice defeated. “The Gentry deed. It has the access clause for the underground network written right into the original survey.”
He held it out, his hand shaking. The weight of centuries of history, of my family’s actual legal claim, felt heavy in his trembling hand.
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