I pulled them out into the light. It was a letter, addressed to me in my father’s elegant, sloping handwriting. And resting on top of it was a silver USB
drive.
My hands trembled violently as I broke the wax seal on the envelope. I unfolded the heavy parchment. The date at the top was exactly one week before he died.
My dearest Harper,
If you are reading this, then everything has unfolded more or less as I expected. Eleanor has likely tried to steal the house, and Benjamin has triggered the trust. I am so profoundly sorry I couldn’t tell you everything while I was alive. She was watching me too closely, and I needed her to believe she had the upper hand.
I swallowed hard, a tear spilling over my eyelashes and hitting the paper.
You see, my brave girl, the mysterious illness that is currently failing my heart is not a mystery at all. I discovered her true nature a year ago. She is poisoning me.
I dropped the letter. The paper fluttered to the rug like a dead leaf.
I stared at the words, my brain refusing to process the magnitude of the horror. My father knew he was being murdered. And he had stayed.
Suddenly, the heavy oak front door—the one I had deadbolted hours ago—let out a loud, distinct click. The sound of a key turning in the lock echoed through the silent house.
Someone was inside.
Panic, sharp and metallic, flooded my veins. I scrambled backward on the rug, clutching the letter and the USB drive to my chest.
Footsteps. Slow, deliberate, and muffled by the hallway runner.
I scrambled to my feet, my eyes darting around the study for a weapon. I grabbed the heavy brass fire poker from the hearth. I stood behind the heavy mahogany door of the study, holding my breath, my muscles coiled tight enough to snap.
The footsteps moved past the study, heading toward the kitchen. I waited until the sound faded, then silently pushed the door closed and locked it from the inside. It wouldn’t hold anyone for long, but it gave me a barrier.
I stumbled to the desk, flipped open my laptop, and jammed the silver USB drive into the port. I needed to know exactly what I was dealing with. My father had sacrificed himself to gather this evidence; I couldn’t let it be destroyed.
The drive opened on my screen. It was meticulously organized into folders named by date. I clicked on a folder from four months ago. Inside were dozens of video files.