Chapter 7 - THE LETTER
The next morning, Griffin was released pending further investigation.
He came home alone.
Ilsa did not.
She had been detained for questioning.
For the first time in twelve years, the house was quiet.
No criticism.
No comments.
No passive-aggressive laughter.
Just silence.
Griffin placed a folded envelope on the kitchen table.
"This is the letter."
I didn't touch it.
"Where did you get it?"
"Mom gave it to me six months ago."
"Why?"
"To make me cooperate."
I stared at him.
"What did Dad write?"
"I don't know."
"You never opened it?"
"No."
"Why?"
He looked ashamed.
"Because I was afraid."
I picked up the envelope.
My father's handwriting was unmistakable.
I opened it.
Claire,
If you're reading this, I've failed to protect you in the way I wanted.
But listen carefully.
Do not judge Griffin by what he tells you.
Judge him by what he does when nobody is watching.
My heart tightened.
The letter continued.
Your husband is not the mastermind.
But he is not innocent.
He made choices.
He accepted money.
He signed documents.
And he stayed silent when he should have spoken.
I closed my eyes.
Then came the sentence that changed everything.
The person behind this is not trying to steal the house.
They are trying to gain access to something beneath it.
I looked up.
"Something beneath the house?"
Griffin nodded.
"I heard Dad mention a vault once."
"What vault?"
"I don't know."
The letter continued.
There is a sealed room beneath the west wing.
Only I knew how to open it.
Now you must.
The key is where Claire will look only when she remembers being a child.
I stared at the sentence.
Then I remembered.
My childhood bedroom.
The old music box.
I ran upstairs.
Inside the closet was a wooden box I had kept since I was eight years old.
I opened it.
The music box was still there.
I turned it over.
Nothing.
Then I noticed a small brass screw.
I removed it.
A key fell into my hand.
Griffin stood behind me.
"What is it?"
"I don't know."
We went downstairs.
The west wing had been closed for years.
At the end of the corridor was a wooden wall panel.
I remembered my father once telling me never to move it.
I inserted the key.
A click sounded.
The panel opened.
Behind it was a staircase.
Dark.
Narrow.
Cold.
We descended.
At the bottom was a steel door.
My key opened it.
Inside was a room filled with boxes.
Documents.
Photographs.
Hard drives.
Bank records.
And one wall covered with names.
I stepped closer.
My father's handwriting appeared beside each name.
Griffin Whitaker.
Ilsa Whitaker.
Three lawyers.
Two bankers.
And one name I didn't recognize.
Evan Cross.
Under the name was one word.
Architect.
Griffin looked at me.
"Who is Evan Cross?"
I shook my head.
Then I saw another photograph.
My father was standing beside him.
And in the photograph, Evan was holding a blueprint.
The blueprint was for my house.
My father's letter had one final page.
I unfolded it.
If they ever enter the vault, it means they have discovered what I hid beneath the foundation.
Do not trust anyone.
Not even the person standing beside you.
I slowly looked at Griffin.
He stared back.
Neither of us spoke.
Then something moved behind us.
A shadow.
May you like
We turned.
The steel door slammed shut.
