Chapter 25 - The Living Memory
The rain began to fall in heavy, deliberate sheets as we drove the back roads toward the western boundary of Blackwood Manor. Sarah sat in the passenger seat of Arthur’s car, guiding us through unmarked logging trails where the mud was thick as porridge.
"Richard has two private airstrips within forty miles," Sarah explained, her fingers tracing the foggy glass of the window. "One in Bangor, one south of the border. If he has an offshore account that Charles missed, he’ll try to reach the highway before the state police set up the roadblocks."
"He doesn't have an offshore account," Arthur replied coldly. "I froze the grand trust at noon. His passport is flagged. If he tries to board a private charter, he’ll be arrested on the tarmac."
"He won't run empty-handed," I said, staring into the dark pines. "He cares about appearances more than his life. He won't leave Blackwood without the family silver, the bearer bonds, and the original deeds. He thinks if he holds the paper, he still holds the power."
We reached the old stone culvert half a mile behind the carriage house. The iron gate here was choked with wild ivy and dead branches. Miles pulled a battery-powered saw from his trunk—the tool he had used to build Lily’s playhouse—and within five minutes, the rusted chain link parted with a high-pitched metallic shriek.
We walked on foot through the dripping woods. The manor loomed ahead against the dark sky like a beached whale, its dark slate gables cutting into the rain clouds.
Only one light was visible. On the second floor, in the master library where my father kept his mahogany desk and the grand oil portrait of Charles Sterling, a single yellow lamp burned behind the leaded glass.
"Look at the chimney," Sarah murmured.
Thick, gray smoke was pouring from the stone stack, carried sideways by the bitter wind. The smell of burning paper, leather, and varnish drifted down across the wet lawn.
"He's burning the ledgers," Arthur cursed under his breath. "The secondary trust records—he’s trying to incinerate the paper trail before the deputies get through the front gates."
"Not on my watch," I said, surging forward across the sodden lawn.
"Elena, wait!" Miles caught my arm, his face wet with rain. "We don't know what he has in there. He's cornered."
"He's an old man with an empty safe and a grave full of stones," I said, pulling away gently but firmly. "He has spent my entire life making me feel like an intruder in my own skin. He made my daughter cry into a paper crown. I am not waiting for the sheriff to let him slip out through a back cellar."
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Sarah stepped up beside me, her jaw set, her hand resting on my shoulder. "We go through the conservatory door. Charles kept a duplicate key beneath the sunstone sundial. It's been there since 1970."
Together, moving through the rain that smelled of ash, we crossed the perimeter of the house that had terrorized three generations of women.
