Chapter 13 - THE NIGHT AT 1847
My grandmother's house had been empty for eleven years.
1847 Hawthorne Road.
The number that had once helped me find the hidden trust.
I had always assumed my grandmother used 1847 in financial records because she loved the house.
Now I wondered whether she had been trying to point me toward it.
Natalie hated the idea of going there.
Grant hated it more.
“I'll go.”
I looked at him.
“No.”
“Penelope.”
“You don't get to become my bodyguard because you discovered remorse.”
His jaw tightened.
Then relaxed.
“Fair.”
Natalie arranged for an investigator to meet us.
The house smelled like dust and old wood.
Most furniture remained beneath white sheets.
I hadn't entered since my grandmother's estate was settled.
Standing inside felt like walking into a memory that had forgotten me.
I remembered Christmas mornings.
Cookies.
My grandmother singing badly.
Aunt Clara arguing about politics.
No Elizabeth.
Never Elizabeth.
We searched the study.
Nothing.
Then I noticed scratches beneath the old desk.
Four numbers.
Again.
I ran my fingers across them.
The floorboard beneath the desk was loose.
Under it was a metal box.
Inside were letters.
Dozens.
All addressed to Elizabeth.
None mailed.
I opened the oldest.
Elizabeth,
I know you believe we chose the money over you.
You are right.
My hands began shaking.
The story emerged slowly.
Their father—my great-grandfather—had owned several properties and a manufacturing company.
Elizabeth, the oldest daughter, had helped run it.
But when their father became ill, Clara and Margaret discovered Elizabeth had been secretly transferring company funds.
Elizabeth claimed she was protecting money from their father's abusive business partner.
Margaret believed she was stealing.
The sisters fought.
Then came the night.
Elizabeth confronted them at 1847.
There was an argument.
A fall.
Blood.
And a decision.
They believed Elizabeth was dead.
She wasn't.
She disappeared before the police arrived.
But Margaret and Clara had already altered documents to hide what happened.
Later, their father died.
The inheritance passed to Margaret and Clara.
Elizabeth received nothing.
My grandmother spent the rest of her life building protections around the money.
Not because she feared husbands like Grant.
Not only.
She feared Elizabeth.
A floorboard creaked upstairs.
Everyone froze.
The investigator reached for his radio.
“Stay here.”
He moved toward the staircase.
Another sound.
Then running.
Someone was inside.
The investigator shouted.
A back door slammed.
We rushed outside.
A dark vehicle disappeared down the road.
But whoever had been inside left something behind.
A phone.
On its screen was a photograph taken less than an hour earlier.
Ryan.
Alive.
Sitting in a chair.
Holding today's newspaper.
May you like
And beneath the photograph:
BRING ME WHAT MARGARET STOLE.
