My parents charged me $1,950 a month to live in my own grandfather’s house, but when Grandpa discovered I had paid them $70,200, he demanded to know who had given them permission.

The ancestral estate was quiet, the grand grandfather clock in the hallway ticking steadily toward 2:00 AM. Outside, the storm had finally broken, leaving a thick, freezing fog rolling across the manicured lawns. Richard knew the security blind spots. He had grown up in this house, long before Walter had upgraded the perimeter cameras.

Dressed in dark clothes, shivering from the cold, Richard slipped through the old wrought-iron side gate that the gardeners used. He moved silently along the edge of the rose bushes, approaching the heavy stone foundation of the south wing. There was an old coal chute here, long decommissioned, that led directly into the subterranean levels of the mansion—right near Walter’s private archives.

He jimmied the rusted iron latch with a crowbar he had purchased with his last fifty dollars of cash. The chute groaned open, and Richard slid feet-first into the absolute darkness of the basement.

He landed hard on the concrete, dusting himself off as he pulled a small flashlight from his pocket. He clicked it on, the beam cutting through the dusty air. He navigated the labyrinth of wine racks and forgotten storage crates, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.

He finally reached the heavy steel door of the archives. It was secured by a modern biometric keypad. But Richard smiled grimly. He knew his father’s habits. Walter was a man of tradition, and he often bypassed the biometrics for a manual override key hidden inside a hollowed-out vintage wine bottle in the adjacent rack.

Richard found the bottle, shattered it against the floor, and retrieved the heavy brass key. He inserted it into the lock, twisting it with a satisfying clunk. The heavy steel door swung open. He stepped inside, shining his light on the rows of filing cabinets and locked safes.