Chapter 4 - The Discovery in the StudyCeleste stumbled back against the stone pillar, her coffee cup slipping from her fingers, shattering against the porch floorboards.
"No... no!" Celeste wept hysterically, grabbing Grant's arm. "Grant! Do something! Tell them he owned the house!"
Grant stared at the legal decree in his shaking hands, sweat beading along his hairline, realization smashing into his chest like a freight train.
"Get your things, Celeste," Grant whispered, his voice cracking into a pathetic, desperate whine.
Blake stood by his sports car, his jaw sagging open in total horror, his phone slipping from his fingers, clattering onto the driveway asphalt as the sheriff's deputies escorted him off the property.
I walked past them, stepping through the front double doors into the warm, sunlit foyer of my childhood home.
The house smelled of cedar, old books, and my father's favorite black tea.
I walked up the grand staircase to the second floor, pushing open the heavy oak door of my father's private study.
The room was exactly as he had left it: the leather armchair near the window, his reading lamp still turned on, and his wooden desk covered in accounting ledgers.
I walked over to the desk, running my fingers softly over the polished wood, tears of deep love and peace welling in my eyes.
Marianne stepped into the study behind me, setting her briefcase on the table.
"The deputies are clearing their personal items from the master suite, Nora," Marianne reported softly. "The property is officially yours."
"Look at the bookshelf, Marianne," I murmured, pointing toward the heavy mahogany wall unit behind the desk.
On the third shelf, resting behind a collection of vintage tax law volumes, sat a small electronic safe.
"That's where Dad kept the secondary server backups," I explained, stepping over to the shelf.
I reached out my hand, entering the four-digit code stamped on my brass key: 4-0-8-2.
CLICK. WHIRR.
The heavy steel door of the safe popped open four inches.
Inside lay two encrypted hard drives, a second blue folder, and a sealed envelope stamped with the logo of the Federal Bureau of Investigation Financial Crimes Division.
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My father hadn't just audited Grant's offshore accounts—he had already submitted a full formal deposition to the federal government three days before he was killed.
"He knew they were coming for him, Marianne," I whispered, holding the FBI folder against my chest. "He knew... and he made sure the evidence was unbreakable."
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