Chapter 3 - The BoxThe Secret Arthur BuriedThe next morning, I called a locksmith.

Not because I couldn't open Arthur's cash box.

Because I could.

The key had been hidden in a place only Arthur and I knew about.

Inside the hollow wooden leg of the grandfather clock.

I retrieved it before breakfast.

Then I sat alone in the garage.

The house was silent.

I opened the cash box.

Inside were old insurance documents, photographs, tax records, and several envelopes.

At the bottom was a narrow brass key.

I had seen it before.

I just couldn't remember where.

Then I noticed the envelope beneath it.

Arthur had written one word across the front.

BANK.

I opened it.

There was a safe-deposit box number.

A branch address.

And another note.

Only retrieve this if someone starts behaving as though they already own what belongs to us.

I laughed quietly.

Not because anything was funny.

Because Arthur had been planning for a future he never told me he feared.

I called Martin.

He told me the box still existed.

I drove downtown that afternoon.

At the bank, the manager recognized my name.

He disappeared into the back.

Ten minutes later, he returned with a gray case.

"You are listed as joint authorized access."

I nodded.

He unlocked it.

Inside was a thick envelope sealed with red wax.

Arthur had never used red wax.

My hands began shaking.

I opened it.

There was a copy of the house deed.

Then bank statements.

Then photographs.

Then one handwritten page.

Priscilla,

I know you will be angry that I kept this from you. But there are things I wanted to protect you from while I was alive.

Do not mistake generosity for weakness.

The day someone moves into our home believing they are entitled to control it, check the financial records first.

I read the page twice.

Then I turned to the bank statements.

They were from an account I did not recognize.

My name was listed.

So was Arthur's.

I called Martin from the bank.

"Why did Arthur have a second account?"

"You didn't know?"

"No."

He was silent.

"Martin."

"Arthur asked me to keep certain financial matters separate from your day-to-day accounts."

"How much?"

He paused.

"Enough."

"That's not an answer."

"Approximately two hundred and sixty thousand dollars remained when the account was last documented."

I nearly dropped the papers.

"Where is it now?"

"I don't know."

"What do you mean you don't know?"

"The account has not been accessed through the trust."

A cold sensation spread through me.

Someone else had tried to access it.

Martin confirmed that a recent inquiry had been made.

"Who?"

He couldn't tell me over the phone.

But he gave me a date.

Three weeks ago.

Three weeks ago was after Sarah had moved in.

I drove home in silence.

When I arrived, Sarah was on the porch.

She smiled.

"Where were you?"

"Bank."

Something flickered in her eyes.

"Why?"

"I had business."

She stepped aside.

"David's upstairs."

I entered.

My phone rang.

Martin.

"Priscilla, I need you to check your credit-monitoring records."

"Why?"

"Because I found something."

I walked into the study and closed the door.

"What?"

"Someone submitted a preliminary financing inquiry using information associated with your property."

My heart stopped.

"Who?"

"We are investigating."

"Martin."

His voice softened.

"We found a second issue."

I waited.

"An online ownership affidavit was drafted but never recorded."

"Whose name is on it?"

Silence.

Then:

"David Holden."

I sat down.

My son's name.

Not Sarah.

David.

I stared at the wall.

"Are you telling me my son tried to claim my house?"

"I'm telling you someone prepared a document that could be interpreted that way."

I heard footsteps outside the door.

I turned.

The handle moved.

I held my breath.

"Mom?" David called.

I didn't answer.

The handle moved again.

Then stopped.

His footsteps faded.

I lowered the phone.

"Martin, send me everything."

"I already did."

I checked my email.

Three attachments.

I opened the first.

A draft ownership affidavit.

I opened the second.

A financing inquiry.

I opened the third.

A photograph.

My stomach twisted.

It was a photograph of my house.

Taken from the street.

At night.

Whoever took it had been standing directly across from my front porch.

And in the lower corner of the image was a timestamp.

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Three days before Sarah and David moved in.

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