Chapter 9 - The Line in the Sand
Frank was out the side door before the glass finished settling, his flashlight beam cutting through the rain-slicked alleyway behind the shop. But whoever threw the stone was already gone, leaving only twin tire ruts spinning out into the street.
I hurried into the office, Julian right behind me. I knelt and picked up the stone, untying the wet surveyor’s tape. Scrawled across the ribbon in waterproof marker was a single address: *Exchange National Bank, Geneva, NY. Tomorrow morning at nine. Come alone, Julian.*
"You're not going," I said instantly, gripping Julian’s wrist. "It's an ambush. We call the State Police. We have the letters, we have Frank’s connections—"
"No," Julian interrupted softly, though his jaw was set like granite. "If they’re watching Ruth’s house, calling the local cops will only speed up whatever they’re planning. These people aren't common street thugs, Nola. If they survived thirty years in the shadows tracking Mercer’s stolen assets, they have ties everywhere."
"Then we don't play by their rules," Frank said, stepping back inside, soaked in rain, his eyes blazing with an old, dangerous fire. "They told Julian to come alone. That means they don't expect the mechanic and the retired plant boss."
We drove straight to Grandma Ruth’s house on the hill. The front porch light was on, casting a warm amber puddle across the wet steps. Inside, Ruth was awake, seated at the kitchen table with a pot of chamomile tea. She didn't look frail tonight; she looked like a matriarch who smelled smoke before the flames appeared.
When we set the brass key and the Polaroid before her, Grandma Ruth didn't flinch. She picked up the key, turning it over in her spotted, elegant fingers.
"Evelyn always was a coward," Ruth said quietly, her voice devoid of pity. "When my late husband set up the trust, he knew Arthur Vance was a parasite. My husband didn't leave the Geneva vault under Julian’s name, nor Evelyn’s. He left it under mine. Box 414 requires two signatures to open: the primary holder, and the legal heir of the Keating line."
She looked up at me, her blue eyes piercing and fierce. "They can't open that box without you, Nola. And they certainly can't open it without me."
"Grandma, you can't travel out there," I protested. "The voice on the phone—they threatened you."
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"Let them threaten an old woman who has already buried her husband and survived Evelyn Mercer’s treachery," Ruth said, rising to her feet with the help of her silver-tipped cane. "Frank, go into my basement. Behind the canned peaches in the root cellar, there’s a locked steel lockbox. Bring it up. If these ghosts want a war over the Keating name, we’re going to give them an audit."
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