Chapter 9: Ink and Evidence
From my post in the hallway, the manor felt impossibly large, a cavern of dormant wealth and forgotten promises. Inside the study, I heard the faint, rhythmic rustle of parchment—pages being turned with careful, practiced speed. Julian wasn't just looking for one ledger; he was searching for something specific, something that could unravel the clean, pristine narrative Brook had spent five years constructing over his ashes.
"Did you find it?" I whispered, leaning back into the doorframe as a distant shutter banged against the outside brickwork, rattling my nerves.
Julian emerged from the shadows of the desk a moment later, holding a thick leather-bound folio tucked securely beneath his wet trench coat. The leather was dark, scuffed at the corners, and stamped with the gold insignia of the family shipping line. His expression was grim, devoid of any triumph.
"It's all here," he said softly, stepping out into the hallway and pulling the heavy oak door shut behind him. He reached up and flicked the brass toggle back into place, restoring the security grid before the red light could blink awake. "Every transaction, every forced buyout, every signature Brook forged while I was recovering in the burns ward down in Baltimore."
"She told everyone you signed away your shares voluntarily," I said, my heart hammering against my ribs as I looked down the long, empty corridor toward her bedroom wing.
"Because she controlled the narrative while I couldn't speak," Julian replied, his voice hardening into a low, cold register. "The fire wasn't an accident, Natalie. The wiring was severed from the crawlspace beneath the floorboards. She knew the insurance payout would clear her debts, and she knew my absence would give her absolute control over the estate."
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Before I could process the weight of his words, a sharp click echoed from the far end of the gallery—the sound of a door unlatching.
Julian's hand shot out, grabbing my wrist and pulling me hard against the recessed paneling beside a tall grandfather clock just as a beam of yellow light sliced across the hallway floorboards.
