Chapter 8 - The Sister Who Knew Too MuchCeleste called me that evening.
I almost let the call go to voicemail. Since the will reading, we had barely spoken. She had spent most of her time at the Weston estate, posting photographs of rooms she had inherited while I argued with contractors over the cost of repairing a ceiling.
But her voice sounded different.
“Evelyn, we need to meet.”
“Why?”
“Not over the phone.”
“Did Dad send you?”
“No.”
“Then say what you need to say.”
She hesitated.
“I know you found something at Birch Hollow.”
My grip tightened around the phone.
“How?”
“Because Dad has been calling every lawyer, accountant, and banker he knows. He's asking whether anyone has seen documents belonging to Grandma.”
“What documents?”
“I don't know exactly. But he was at the house last night.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“I know. Someone broke in.”
Celeste went silent.
“Evelyn, listen. It wasn't Dad who went inside.”
“Who was it?”
“I think it was someone working for him.”
I paced toward the kitchen window.
“You think? Celeste, someone searched my bedroom. The police are investigating Grandfather's death. Dad knows about the box, and you're calling me with suspicions?”
“I have more than suspicions.”
Her voice cracked.
“Meet me at the old boathouse tomorrow morning. Please.”
The boathouse stood on the edge of the lake where our grandparents had once kept a small wooden sailboat. It had been closed for years, but Celeste still possessed a key.
When I arrived, she was waiting inside, wrapped in a cream coat against the cold.
She looked exhausted.
On a wooden bench lay a folder full of bank statements.
“I found these in Dad's office,” she said.
I opened it.
The pages documented transfers from a company called Northbridge Holdings to several personal accounts. Celeste's name appeared beside one transfer.
$450,000.
“What is this?”
“I didn't know about it. Dad told me the money came from an investment Grandma had made for me. He said I should sign the documents and not worry about the details.”
“You signed?”
“I was twenty-two. He said it was part of my inheritance.”
She covered her face.
“I thought he was helping me.”
The transfer had occurred three weeks after Martin Vale's death. Another document showed a payment to a consulting firm owned by a former police official.
The name at the bottom was Daniel Mercer.
I looked up.
“Your signature is on a financial transfer connected to these companies.”
“I know.”
“Do you understand what that means?”
“I'm beginning to.”
She sat down hard.
“Dad told me Grandma was confused. He said she'd given you the house because she felt guilty about something. Then, when you started asking questions, he said you were unstable and obsessed with the estate.”
“Why didn't you call me earlier?”
“Because I believed him.”
She finally looked at me.
“And because I'm afraid of him.”
The admission hung between us.
For the first time, I saw how our father had controlled us differently. With me, he used humiliation and exclusion. With Celeste, he used money, reassurance, and the constant promise that she was his favorite.
He had taught each of us to distrust the other.
“What happened last night?” I asked.
“Dad came home furious. He said you had gone too far and that Grandma's final mistake was going to destroy everything. Then he called someone named Mercer and told him to retrieve a package before the police could find it.”
“Did he mention the house?”
“He said the house was the key. He said if you found the original deed, the entire trust could unravel.”
I showed her the property document from Account 317.
Her mouth fell open when she read the acreage.
“He told me that land belonged to a development company.”
“He lied.”
“He told me you had inherited an empty shell.”
“He lied about that, too.”
Celeste pushed the papers away.
“There's something else.”
She reached into her handbag and removed a small voice recorder.
“Dad keeps it in his study. I borrowed it this morning.”
“What's on it?”
“I haven't listened to everything. But I heard him say Grandma's name. He said she should have died without leaving anything behind.”
I pressed the play button.
At first there was only static.
Then Richard's voice emerged, low and unmistakable.
“Margaret was supposed to take that secret to the grave.”
A second voice answered.
Daniel Mercer's.
“She left more than you think.”
My father replied with a sentence that made my blood run cold.
“Then make sure Evelyn never gets the chance to hear it.”
The recording ended.
For a long moment, neither of us moved.
Celeste stared at the device as though it had become something poisonous.
“I don't know what to do,” she whispered.
I took her hand.
“Tell the truth.”
She squeezed my fingers.
Then she revealed the final thing she'd discovered in our father's study.
A plane ticket booked for the following morning.
May you like
One-way.
Under Richard Hayes's name.
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