Chapter 5 - THE SECRET BENEATH BLACKWELL MANOR
I slapped James.
The sound cracked through the study.
His guards outside the door immediately moved.
James lifted one hand.
They stopped.
He looked back at me.
I expected anger.
Instead, he touched his jaw.
“I deserved that.”
“That makes it worse.”
“Evelyn—”
“Don't.”
I backed away.
“Were you using me?”
“At first?”
His honesty hurt more than a lie.
“Yes.”
I laughed once.
It sounded broken.
“Wonderful.”
“When I realized who you were, I knew your family was connected to my father's death.”
“So you bought the codex.”
“I already owned it.”
“You brought me here.”
“To keep you alive.”
“And to find your precious chamber.”
“Yes.”
I hated him.
At least I wanted to.
But the man standing in front of me had also spent two million dollars to keep Sullivan from taking the book.
He had protected me during the shooting.
He had gone to the hospital.
He had shown me his father's letter.
None of that erased the lie.
It complicated it.
Which was worse.
“What is inside the chamber?”
“I don't know.”
“Try again.”
“My father believed it contained financial records.”
“Of what?”
“The original Sullivan organization.”
I stared.
James walked to the window.
“Thirty-seven years ago, Patrick's father controlled half the docks. Politicians, judges, police commanders. Everyone was paid.”
“And your father?”
“Worked for him.”
That surprised me.
“Thomas Thornton wasn't always powerful. He was an accountant. He built their laundering network.”
“Then what changed?”
“He discovered they were trafficking people through the docks.”
James's voice became colder.
“My father had rules. Sullivan's father didn't.”
“So he betrayed them?”
“He copied everything.”
The room seemed smaller.
“Ledgers?”
“Names. Payments. Routes. Accounts. Enough evidence to destroy the organization.”
“And he gave it to my grandmother?”
“That's what I believe.”
I thought about Eleanor Blackwell.
Quiet.
Elegant.
Stubborn.
A woman who had spent my childhood teaching me that courage wasn't the absence of fear.
It was deciding something else mattered more.
“Why her?”
“Your grandfather was a federal judge.”
I knew that.
“He died in 1991.”
“He was preparing a case.”
I sat slowly.
“And the evidence?”
“Disappeared when my father was murdered.”
“Except it didn't.”
James looked at the map.
“No.”
“It went beneath Blackwell Manor.”
“Probably.”
“And Sullivan wants it destroyed.”
“Yes.”
“Mercer?”
“Mercer wants something else.”
“What?”
James picked up the brass key.
“Money.”
The old laundering network had apparently hidden millions overseas.
Possibly hundreds of millions.
The chamber could contain account codes proving where it went.
“We need to go to Blackwell Manor,” I said.
“No.”
“My grandmother is being held because of me.”
“She is being held because Mercer needs you alive.”
“Then that's an advantage.”
“It makes you bait.”
“I've had experience.”
James gave me a look.
I stood.
“We go.”
“You are extraordinarily difficult.”
“And you're still coming.”
A long pause.
“Yes.”
We arrived at Blackwell Manor just after sunrise.
The house had been empty since Grandma's stroke.
I unlocked the front door.
Dust floated through pale morning light.
Everything smelled familiar.
Cedar.
Lavender.
Old books.
Home.
For one terrible second, I expected Grandma to call from the kitchen.
Instead, silence answered.
James's men searched every room.
Clear.
I spread the torn map across the dining table.
The visible section showed the east garden.
A chapel had once stood there.
It burned in 1926.
“Grandma used to tell me never to dig near the angel.”
James looked outside.
“What angel?”
I pointed through the window.
A weathered stone statue stood beneath an oak.
We walked to it.
At its base was a Latin inscription.
James crouched.
“There's a keyhole.”
The brass key fit.
Something clicked underground.
A section of stone shifted.
Stairs descended into darkness.
“You first,” I said.
James stared at me.
“You're using me as a shield?”
“You're the one with the gun.”
“Fair.”
We descended.
At the bottom was a steel door.
No lock.
Only a circular mechanism containing letters.
I remembered something Grandma taught me when I was ten.
A family motto.
“Truth survives silence.”
I entered the Latin translation.
VERITAS TACITURNITATEM SUPERVIVIT.
The door opened.
Inside were shelves.
Boxes.
Files.
And an old desk.
James stood motionless.
“My God.”
Decades of evidence.
Photographs.
Ledgers.
Cassette tapes.
Bank records.
I opened one file.
Names.
Judges.
Senators.
Businessmen.
Some dead.
Some very much alive.
James found a metal case.
Inside were passports and account books.
“This could destroy people.”
“Then maybe it should.”
He looked at me.
“You have no idea how dangerous this is.”
“Neither did my grandmother. She protected it anyway.”
Then I saw a smaller envelope.
My name was written across it.
EVELYN.
I opened it.
Inside was a birth certificate.
I frowned.
The mother's name was correct.
My mother, Margaret Blackwell.
The father's name was not.
My entire body went numb.
“No.”
James stepped closer.
“What?”
I handed it to him.
He read the name.
Father: Daniel Thornton.
James stopped breathing.
I stared at him.
“Who is Daniel Thornton?”
He looked at me as though the floor had vanished beneath us.
“My father's younger brother.”
My stomach turned.
“You're saying—”
A gun clicked behind us.
Patrick Sullivan stood in the doorway.
Blood stained his shirt.
His pistol pointed at James.
He smiled at me.
“Congratulations, Evelyn.”
May you like
His finger tightened around the trigger.
“You finally found your family.”
