A stunned silence filled the room. Harrison Brody stared at Marcus, his face a mask of furious disbelief, then turned his glare on me, as if I had conjured the groundskeeper through sheer will. Evelyn’s hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide with shock. Julian finally looked at me, a flicker of understanding, then a deeper horror, dawning in his eyes.
Arthur Pendelton, however, remained calm. He picked up the heavy ledger Marcus had placed before him. Its pages were yellowed, the entries handwritten in neat, precise script. He flipped through them slowly, his gaze scanning the columns of dates and figures.
“Mr. Finch,” Pendelton said, his voice quiet but commanding. “Do you understand the implications of bringing these documents forward?”
Marcus stood his ground, his shoulders squared. “I do, sir. They needed to be seen. The truth.”
Harrison exploded. “This is a violation of privacy! Corporate espionage! You’ll be ruined, Finch!”
“Silence, Mr. Brody,” Pendelton said, his voice rising, cutting through Harrison’s outburst. “This is an arbitration, not a courtroom. And these documents appear to be highly pertinent to the matter at hand.” He held up the ledger. “These are genuine, unaltered studio financial records. And they tell a very clear story.”
He began to read aloud, his voice measured, devoid of emotion, yet each word landed with the force of a hammer blow.
“October 17, 2016. Transfer of eight million dollars, USD, from ‘Brody Studios IPO Contingency Fund’ to ‘Blackwood Holdings, LLC, Stunt Liability Resolution.'”
Evelyn gasped, a small, choked sound. Julian’s head snapped up, his eyes now fixed on Pendelton.
Pendelton continued, his finger tracing the lines. “October 18, 2016. Wire transfer, five hundred thousand dollars, USD, to ‘Dr. Silas Thorne, discreet medical services, Topanga Canyon residence.'”
“October 19, 2016. Purchase of eighty acres, north ridge, Topanga Canyon, for ‘Conservation & Wildlife Sanctuary,’ through ‘Sierra Vista Land Trust.'”
My heart pounded. This was it. The financial blueprint of the cover-up. The sheer audacity of it. Harrison had spent eight million US dollars to make Leo disappear, disguised as a “stunt liability resolution” to protect his studio’s massive IPO. He’d bought the land to keep Leo hidden, a personal prison camouflaged as a sanctuary.
“And finally,” Pendelton read, his voice now colder, “a series of recurring monthly payments, ‘Caretaker Services, Sierra Vista Sanctuary,’ fifty thousand dollars, USD, paid to ‘Leo Smith,’ beginning November 2016.”
Leo Smith. The assumed name Leo O’Connell had been living under. The confirmation was undeniable. A collective intake of breath swept through the room.
Harrison Brody was slumped in his chair, his face pale and slick with sweat. His usual composure had crumbled, revealing a terrified old man. He knew he was caught.
Evelyn let out a sob. “Leo… my Leo… he was alive all this time?” She looked at Harrison, her face contorted in a mixture of grief and betrayal. “You let us mourn him! You let Julian believe he was dead!”
Julian was on his feet, his hands balled into fists, his gaze burning holes through Harrison. “You son of a bitch,” he snarled, his voice low, dangerous. “My brother. You faked his death. For money.”
The room spun. The smell of old paper and the stench of Harrison’s fear filled the air. The truth, finally out, was a horrifying, magnificent thing. It wasn’t just my word anymore. It was cold, hard cash, documented in Harrison’s own books.
Suddenly, a blinding flash of white light illuminated the entire room, followed by an earth-shaking boom. A crack split through the ceiling plaster, showering us with dust. The lights flickered, then died, plunging the living room into near darkness. Outside, the clear sky had vanished, replaced by an ominous, swirling blackness.
A second, even louder thunderclap tore through the air, vibrating through the very foundations of the estate. A moment later, through the now darkened windows, a terrifying sight came into view. A stark, angry orange glow on the horizon, just over the north ridge. And then, the faint, acrid smell of smoke. A freak, unseasonal lightning strike. A Topanga Canyon brushfire. And it was heading straight for us.
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