Chapter 6 - THE GHOSTS OF BELLWEATHER
The threat against my daughter extinguished any fear I had left. It was replaced by a cold, calculating rage.
“I’m going alone,” I told Eleanor in the bank lobby. “Take Sophie. Go to a hotel under a fake name. Do not go back to your house.”
“James, they’re going to kill you,” Eleanor pleaded, gripping my arm.
“They’re going to try,” I said quietly.
I kissed Sophie’s forehead, promising her I would be back for dinner, and walked out into the freezing Ohio morning.
I drove straight to Bellweather House.
The restaurant was closed, a 'Private Event' sign hung on the heavy mahogany doors. I pushed my way inside.
The dining room was empty, save for David, who sat at the very table where Claire had humiliated me the night before. Standing in the shadows near the kitchen doors were the two armed men from the warehouse.
David was swirling a glass of expensive bourbon. On the table in front of him sat a thick manila folder. The original property deeds.
“Have a seat, James,” David smiled, gesturing to the chair across from him.
I didn't sit down. I stood tall, my muddy boots planted firmly on the hardwood floor.
“You have the deeds,” I said. “Why do you want the bank key?”
“Because,” David sighed, taking a sip of his drink, “Rebecca was always too clever for her own good. The deeds are here. But the corporate bylaws she drafted nineteen years ago dictate that the physical corporate seal—the stamp that validates these deeds—is required for a transfer of ownership.”
He pointed at the silver key in my pocket.
“She locked the corporate seal in the safety deposit box, didn't she?” David asked.
I thought about the photograph in the box. There was no seal. There was nothing but a picture. But David didn't know that.
“Let my family go, and I'll give you the key,” I lied smoothly.
David laughed. “You don't negotiate here, James. Give me the key, or I make the phone call, and Eleanor’s car runs off the road on her way to the hotel.”
He reached for his phone.
I had no choice. I pulled the silver key from my pocket and tossed it onto the table. It clattered against the wood, coming to rest next to the folder of deeds.
David smiled triumphantly. He picked up the key and examined it.
“Finally,” he breathed. “I can finish this.”
“You’re selling out your sister’s legacy to pay off gambling debts to the mob,” I said, disgust dripping from every word. “Rebecca would be sick if she could see you.”
David’s smile vanished. He slammed his glass down.
“Rebecca always thought she was better than me!” he snapped. “She got the praise. She got the perfect husband. She got the booming business. All I got was a job working for her! I deserved my own empire, James.”
“So you stole hers,” I said.
“I elevated it,” David sneered. He turned to the two men in the shadows. “Take him to the basement. Tie him up until the wire transfer clears on Monday morning. If the bank manager gives me any trouble about the key, put a bullet in his knee.”
The two men stepped forward, drawing their suppressed pistols.
I backed up slowly, my mind racing. I was outnumbered. Unarmed.
But as I took a step back, my boot brushed against something under the table.
It was a small, plastic crayon.
The crayon Sophie had dropped the night before when Claire had kicked us out.
I looked down at the table. The white tablecloth. The exact spot where Sophie had drawn her purple turtle.
And then, Rebecca’s riddle from the back of the photograph echoed in my mind.
“The foundation of our house is built on the promises we kept.”
I looked at the folder of deeds on the table. Then I looked at the floor beneath my feet.
Nineteen years ago, when we poured the concrete foundation for Bellweather House, Rebecca and I had carved our initials into the wet cement. We had placed our original, handwritten partnership agreement inside a waterproof time capsule and buried it in the floor, directly under the table by the window.
The table we were standing at right now.
David didn't have the original deeds.
He had copies.
The real, legally binding partnership documents—the ones that explicitly stated no sale could ever occur without both founders present—were buried beneath the floorboards.
I looked up at David, a slow smile spreading across my face.
May you like
“You’re right, David,” I said. “Rebecca was clever.”
Before the armed men could react, I grabbed the heavy wooden chair beside me and smashed it directly into the massive plate-glass window overlooking the river.
