Chapter 3 - THE LETTER MY GRANDMOTHER NEVER MENTIONED
“My grandmother did not murder your father.”
The words came out too quickly.
James didn't react.
“I didn't say she did.”
“You said—”
“I said her name was on a letter.”
“That's an accusation.”
“No. It's evidence.”
“You don't know her.”
“And you don't know what happened in 1989.”
Neither did I.
That frightened me more than I wanted to admit.
James placed the codex beneath his arm.
“We're leaving.”
“With my book?”
“With both.”
I stared.
“Both what?”
“You and the book.”
“No.”
A sound came from behind the curtain.
James's entire body changed.
One second he was arguing with me.
The next he had a gun in his hand.
“Down.”
The lights died.
Glass shattered somewhere in the ballroom.
People screamed.
James grabbed me and pulled me behind a stone column.
Gunshots exploded.
I covered my ears.
“What is happening?”
“Someone's removing witnesses.”
“To what?”
Another bullet struck the column.
Stone sprayed my shoulder.
James fired twice toward the curtain.
A man collapsed.
I had never seen someone shot before.
My stomach twisted.
James didn't hesitate.
“Can you run?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
He caught my hand.
We ran.
Not toward the ballroom.
Toward the rear wall.
James pressed something beneath a shelf.
A concealed door opened.
“You have secret tunnels?”
“Later.”
We entered a narrow corridor.
He locked the door behind us.
Emergency lights illuminated concrete stairs descending underground.
“Keep moving.”
“What about everyone upstairs?”
“My men will evacuate them.”
“You seem remarkably prepared for gunfire at charity events.”
“That wasn't a charity event.”
“Not helping.”
We descended into a garage.
A black sedan waited.
A man opened the rear door.
“Boss.”
“Estate.”
I stopped.
“No.”
James turned.
“I need to go to my grandmother.”
“Whoever attacked tonight knew you were coming.”
“You don't know that.”
He held up the codex.
“They waited until this was opened.”
My argument died.
James stepped closer.
“If they know who you are, your grandmother may already be in danger.”
I got into the car.
“Hospital.”
James followed.
“My estate first.”
“Hospital.”
“My security team will retrieve her.”
“No strangers are going near her.”
His jaw tightened.
“Then we go together.”
Twenty minutes later, we reached St. Catherine's Rehabilitation Hospital.
Two of James's vehicles arrived first.
His men spread through the lobby.
I rushed toward the elevator.
James caught up.
“Room?”
“417.”
The doors opened.
Fourth floor.
I ran.
Room 417 stood open.
My heart stopped.
“Grandma?”
The bed was empty.
A nurse lay unconscious near the bathroom.
I screamed for help.
James checked her pulse.
“Alive.”
I saw the wheelchair.
Gone.
The blanket.
Gone.
My grandmother was gone.
Then my phone rang.
Unknown number.
James looked at me.
“Speaker.”
I answered.
Sullivan's voice filled the room.
“Good evening, Miss Blackwell.”
I felt sick.
“Where is she?”
“Safe.”
“If you hurt her—”
“I'm offended. Eleanor and I are old friends.”
James took the phone.
“What do you want?”
Sullivan laughed.
“There he is.”
“Patrick.”
“The missing pages.”
“We don't have them.”
“You have the codex.”
“The compartment was empty.”
Silence.
Then Sullivan said, “Interesting.”
“You didn't take them?”
“No.”
That frightened James.
I could see it.
“Then who did?”
“Ask your father.”
“My father is dead.”
“Yes,” Sullivan said softly. “That has always made his answers inconvenient.”
James's face became murderous.
Sullivan continued.
“Bring me the codex by midnight tomorrow, and perhaps Eleanor goes home.”
“Where?”
“I'll contact the girl.”
“Contact me.”
“No.”
Sullivan's tone changed.
“She is the Blackwell.”
The call ended.
I grabbed James's arm.
“We give him the book.”
“No.”
“My grandmother—”
“Listen to me. Sullivan kidnapped her without knowing the pages were missing.”
“So?”
“So someone else removed them.”
I understood.
“There are three sides.”
“At least.”
James looked toward the empty bed.
“Your grandmother. Sullivan. And whoever killed my father.”
My phone vibrated.
A text.
A photograph.
Grandma sat in her wheelchair.
Alive.
Behind her stood an old brick wall.
She held something in her hand.
A card.
I zoomed in.
Three handwritten numbers.
317.
“What does that mean?” James asked.
I stared.
Then remembered.
“My grandmother used to have a safe-deposit box.”
“Where?”
“First National.”
“What number?”
“I don't know.”
James looked at the photograph.
“You do now.”
We drove directly to the bank.
James somehow got us inside after midnight.
I didn't ask how.
The manager looked terrified enough to suggest the answer.
Box 317 belonged to Eleanor Blackwell.
My authorization as her legal representative opened it.
Inside was no money.
No jewelry.
Only a photograph and an envelope.
The photograph showed three young people standing outside the Blackwell estate in 1989.
My grandmother.
A young Patrick Sullivan.
And a man I immediately recognized from the portrait hanging in James's office lobby.
His father.
Thomas Thornton.
James stared at the picture.
“They knew each other.”
I opened the envelope.
Inside was a single handwritten page.
James read over my shoulder.
If Evelyn finds this, then I failed to tell you before they came for me. Thomas Thornton did not steal from our family. He died protecting it.
My hands trembled.
Below that:
The codex does not prove ownership of the Blackwell land. It proves what is buried beneath it.
James looked at me.
“What is beneath your land?”
“I don't know.”
At the bottom, my grandmother had written one final instruction.
Never trust a Sullivan.
Then another sentence had been added in different handwriting.
Fresh ink.
And never trust James Thornton.
A floorboard creaked behind us.
James reached for his gun.
The bank manager stood in the doorway.
Except he was no longer frightened.
He was holding a pistol.
May you like
Pointed directly at James.
“I'm afraid,” he said, “Mrs. Blackwell was right.”
