“He received a message yesterday asking him to meet someone at the house. The message appeared to come from Mr. Grayson.”
“But it didn’t.”
“No. Walter says your mother served him coffee. After drinking it, he became disoriented. When he woke, he was locked downstairs.”
“What did they want from him?”
“A key.”
“What key?”
Beckett looked at the prosecutor again.
This time she nodded.
“Walter says your grandfather kept a private safe-deposit box under another name.”
“Why?”
“Because he feared your father would destroy evidence.”
“What was inside?”
“Walter doesn’t know. He had one key. Your grandfather kept the other.”
“Did my parents find Walter’s key?”
“No.”
A strange flicker of hope moved through me.
“Where is it?”
“Walter says he mailed it to you three days ago.”
I frowned.
“I didn’t receive anything.”
Wyatt took out his phone.
“Our apartment has a secure mailroom. I’ll call the building manager.”
He stepped into the hallway.
The prosecutor closed the file.
“There is one more thing you should understand.”
“What?”
“Your twenty-eighth birthday is six weeks away.”
“I know.”
“According to the trust, full control transfers to you on that date.”
“So my family had six weeks to stop it.”
“Yes.”
“Why attack me now?”
“We believe Mr. Grayson planned to notify you early because of the forged transfer request.”
I turned toward the window.
“So they knew the truth was coming.”
“It appears so.”
A bitter laugh slipped from my throat, making my face ache.
“All these years, I thought they hated me because Melanie was prettier. Because she was easier. Because I never learned how to stay quiet.”
Lena Morris’s expression softened.
“They may have needed you to believe that.”
The words struck harder than expected.
Maybe every insult had served a purpose.
Maybe my parents had spent years convincing me I was unwanted so I would never question why I received nothing.
Why Melanie drove expensive cars.
Why my father suddenly had money for vacations.
Why my mother always changed the subject whenever Grandpa’s name came up.
They had not only stolen my inheritance.
They had stolen my understanding of my own life.
Wyatt returned.
“The package is there.”
My heart jumped.
“Are you sure?”
“The manager checked the log. It arrived yesterday and requires my signature or yours.”
Detective Beckett stood.
“No one touches it until law enforcement collects it.”
Wyatt nodded.
“We’ll meet your officers there.”
Lena Morris packed away the documents.
“Sadie, we’ll place security outside your room.”
“Because Melanie is still missing?”
“Yes.”
“She won’t come here.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Because she thinks I’m weak.”
The prosecutor studied me.
“And is she right?”
I looked at Wyatt.
At the torn shirt he still had not changed.
At Detective Beckett’s evidence file.
At the bandages covering the face my mother believed would destroy my future.
“No,” I said.
“She’s never been more wrong.”
By afternoon, the swelling around my eye had worsened, but my vision began to return in fragments.
Light first.
Then color.
Then the blurred outline of Wyatt’s face.
He cried when I told him I could see him.
I tried to smile, but the stitches pulled painfully.
“You look terrible,” I whispered.
He laughed through his tears.
“So do you.”
“That’s rude.”
“You started it.”
For one precious moment, the hospital room felt almost normal.
Then Detective Beckett returned carrying a sealed evidence bag.
Inside was a small brass key.
