Chapter 8 - THE TRUTH IN THE SAFE
Chaos exploded in the library.
My mother fired a warning shot into the ceiling, raining plaster down on Victoria’s guards. The deafening blast gave us the three seconds we needed.
I grabbed Leo’s hand. Charles grabbed Evelyn. Together, we bolted out of the library, sprinting down the long, marbled corridors toward the East Wing. My mother covered our retreat, walking backward, keeping the shotgun leveled at the doorway.
We reached the heavy oak door of the nursery. Charles slammed it shut behind us, throwing the heavy brass deadbolt just as the first bullets from Victoria’s guards tore into the wood.
We were barricaded inside the room I was supposed to grow up in.
“The safe,” my mother panted, leaning the shotgun against the crib. She looked at Charles. “Show us.”
Charles rushed to the pristine white bookshelves. He pulled a copy of The Velveteen Rabbit forward, pushing a hidden latch. The entire bookshelf swung outward silently, revealing a massive, steel vault door set directly into the brickwork of the mansion.
There were two keyholes.
Charles pulled his master key from his pocket and inserted it into the left lock. I stepped forward, holding the heavy gold family heirloom. I pressed the signet ring’s crest into the right lock.
We turned them at the exact same time.
The heavy steel tumblers groaned, a sound that hadn't been heard in twenty-two years. The vault door clicked open.
Inside sat a stack of pristine, yellowing documents.
I pulled them out.
Answer One, Open Two. The first document was the original, notarized transfer deed, clearly showing Victoria’s forged signature over my grandfather's name. But it was the second document that made the breath catch in my throat.
It was a handwritten letter, stained with dried blood.
“What is that?” Evelyn asked, trembling as she leaned over my shoulder.
“It’s a confession,” I whispered, reading the jagged handwriting. “It’s from the hitman. Your son, Evelyn. He wrote it the night of the plane crash.”
Reversal.
I read the words aloud in the dusty nursery.
“If you are reading this, my Aunt Victoria has finally killed me. I couldn't murder Elena and the baby that night in the fire. I watched my mother pull them out, and I helped them get to the train. Victoria thinks I finished the job later. But I didn't. I spent the last twenty-two years secretly funding Elena’s hiding place in Chicago. I protected them. If I die, it means Victoria found out. Please, whoever finds this, protect my son, Leo.”
Evelyn collapsed onto the floor, sobbing uncontrollably. Her son hadn't been a monster. He had been a hero. He had sacrificed his own life to protect my mother and me, playing the role of a ruthless hitman to keep Victoria satisfied while secretly keeping us safe.
I looked at little Leo, who was staring at the letter with wide, tear-filled eyes. His father had died protecting my family.
“He was a good man, Evelyn,” my mother said softly, kneeling beside the weeping woman and placing a hand on her shoulder. The two women, bound by fire and scars, finally found peace.
BOOM.
The heavy oak door of the nursery shuddered violently.
Victoria’s guards had brought a battering ram.
BOOM.
The wood splintered around the deadbolt.
My mother picked up the shotgun. Charles stood in front of Evelyn and Leo. I held the documents tightly to my chest.
With a final, deafening crash, the door burst open.
Victoria Carter stepped into the nursery, stepping over the splintered wood. Her guards aimed their weapons at us. But Victoria wasn't looking at the documents. She was looking at Leo.
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With terrifying speed, she snatched the seven-year-old boy by his pajama shirt, pulling him tightly against her, and pressed the barrel of a small silver revolver directly against his temple.
“Drop the shotgun, Elena,” Victoria hissed, her eyes wild with complete, sociopathic desperation. “Or I end the Carter bloodline right now.”
