My mother called my six-year-old daughter “a burden” at Christmas dinner, so I took her presents and walked out—but by New Year’s, Grandma was begging for a second chance. / Chapter 21 / 191

Chapter 21 - The Key in the Floorboards

Three days later, Julian’s estate managers called to ask if I would come up to Vance Manor one final time before the cleanup crews began boxing up Eleanor’s personal possessions for delivery to Springfield.

"There are private childhood belongings of yours in the attic, Mrs. Vance," the estate manager had explained over the phone. "Mr. Julian Vance wants to ensure nothing of yours is discarded by mistake."

Leaving Lily safely with Daniel at home, I drove up the winding, ice-crusted hill to the old manor. The iron gates were propped wide open, moving vans parked along the circular driveway. The house looked different without Eleanor’s imposing presence—smaller, draftier, and stripped of its grandeur.

I spent an hour in the third-floor attic, packing my old high school yearbooks, my grandmother's hand-stitched quilts, and a few photo albums into cardboard boxes. But as I descended the back servant stairs, a strange urge pulled me toward Eleanor’s private parlor on the first floor.

The room was practically empty now. The Persian rugs had been rolled up, and the oil portrait of Charles Vance had been taken down from above the fireplace, leaving a faded rectangle on the dark green wallpaper.

As I walked across the bare oak floorboards, my boot heel struck a section near the hearth that produced an odd, hollow thud.

I stopped.

I knelt down on the cold floor and ran my fingers along the seams of the tongue-and-groove parquet. Just beneath the lip of the fireplace mantel, two boards were slightly loose. Using a brass fire poker from the hearth, I gently wedged the tip into the groove and pried upward.

The board lifted with a soft creak.

Concealed within the subfloor joists was a heavy, fireproof lockbox. And resting on top of the lockbox was an open, unsealed envelope addressed not to me, and not to the courts, but addressed in Eleanor’s frantic cursive to: *Julian*.

My heart slammed against my ribs. Eleanor had signed the plea deal three days ago. She had supposedly not seen Julian since 1978.

With shaking fingers, I pulled the letter out of the envelope. It was dated December 28th—three days *before* Julian had knocked on my door on New Year's Eve.

The letter read:

*Julian,*

*Emma took the bait at Christmas. She walked out exactly as we planned. She hates me now, which means she won't suspect a thing when you show up playing the vengeful brother. Bring the sheriff to her door on New Year's Eve and force her to sign the surrender papers. Once she legally relinquishes the LLC, the original offshore trust in Halifax will unlock automatically, just like we agreed in Zurich last month. Split the six million fifty-fifty. I'll play the miserable exile in Springfield for six months until the IRS clears the audit, and then meet you in Geneva.*

*Don't fail me, brother. We've waited forty years for her to pay off the mortgage so we could liquidate the trust.*

A cold, suffocating terror froze the air in my lungs.