Chapter 3 - The Secret Beneath the Altar
My body shook violently as I stood trapped between the father-in-law who was supposed to be on his deathbed and the study door behind which my brother-in-law was plotting my financial ruin.
Arthur didn't move toward me. He pointed again, more urgently this time, at the prayer room. He flicked his wrist, motioning for me to move inside before Richard or Martha opened the study door.
Driven by raw survival instinct, I slipped past Arthur into the small, windowless prayer room. The room smelled of old beeswax candles, incense, and damp stone. A simple wooden altar sat against the far wall beneath a brass crucifix.
Arthur shuffled in behind me, closing the heavy oak door with a quiet click. He locked it from the inside with a small key he pulled from his robe, then sank heavily into a wooden kneeling bench, gasping for air.
"You... you shouldn't have come, Clara," he rasped, his voice a dry whisper that sounded like dead leaves dragging across pavement. "I tried to stop Richard... but I don't control the board anymore. They're bankrupting the company. They need Julian's shares to cover twenty million dollars in fraudulent offshore loans."
"What are you talking about, Arthur?" I demanded in an urgent whisper, crouching beside him. "What did Richard mean about Julian's accident? What is in the floor safe?"
Arthur closed his eyes, tears squeezing through the deep wrinkles around his temples. "Julian didn't lose control of his car because of rain, Clara. He found out what Richard and the board were doing. He was coming to Pine Ridge to turn over the company's double-entry books to the federal prosecutors. His brakes didn't fail. They were drained."
The room seemed to tilt around me. The air grew thick, suffocating.
"You knew?" I whispered, my voice breaking. "You knew my husband was murdered, and you let me believe it was an accident? You let my son grow up without a father while you kept his killers in your home?"
"I was cowardly," Arthur wept silently. "Richard threatened to destroy Julian's legacy... to frame Julian posthumously for the financial fraud if I went to the police. He threatened to take Leo away from you using high-priced custody lawyers, claiming you were unfit and penniless. I stayed silent to protect the family name... and to keep Leo safe. But I was wrong. A house built on blood cannot stand."
Arthur leaned forward, reaching out with a trembling, age-spotted hand to grab my wrist. His grip was surprisingly firm.
"Under the third floorboard from the left side of the altar," Arthur whispered, pointing his cane at the base of the wooden structure. "There is a brass box. Gabriel helped me put it there two weeks ago when he snuck onto the property disguised as a maintenance worker. Gabriel was never a thief, Clara. Julian sent him into hiding to keep the evidence safe if anything happened to him."
"Gabriel... the man on the bus?"
"Yes," Arthur nodded weakly. "He has been watching you since you left your house this morning. He knew Richard sent a car for you. He couldn't risk talking to you openly because Richard's men were tailing your bus. He had to give you the warning without alerting them."
I didn't waste another second. I hurried over to the altar and knelt on the cold stone floor. I found the third floorboard from the left. It looked identical to the others, but when I pressed down firm on its southern edge, the northern end popped up slightly.
I pried the dark oak plank away, revealing a shallow alcove in the foundation. Inside sat a heavy, brass-bound mahogany box secured with a simple keyhole.
"The key," I breathed, looking back at Arthur.
Arthur reached up, unhooking a small silver chain from around his neck. Hung from the chain was a small, strangely shaped brass key. He pressed it into my palm.
"This holds Julian’s true last will and testament," Arthur said, his eyes wild with a mixture of terror and redemption. "And the original stock certificates he bought under his private holding company before he died. He left everything—100 percent of his shares and his private estate—unconditionally to Leo, with you as the sole trustee until he turns twenty-one. Richard has been using a forged corporate proxy for three years. Tomorrow morning, they are going to make you sign a legal release that ratifies those forged documents retroactively."
Before I could reply, a loud knock rattled the prayer room door.
"Father?" Richard’s voice called out from the hallway, sharp and suspicious. "Who are you talking to in there? I heard voices."
My heart leaped into my throat. I instantly crammed the brass box into my large canvas tote bag, slammed the floorboard back into position, and smoothed down my skirt.
"I am praying, Richard!" Arthur called out, his voice instantly shifting from a sharp whisper to the frail, trembling tone of an invalid. "Can an dying old man not seek peace with his Maker without being harassed?"
A pause lingered in the hallway. I held my breath, barely daring to pulse.
"The notary will be here at eight, Father," Richard said through the thick wood, his tone cold and unyielding. "Get some rest. You need to look lucid enough to witness Clara's signature."
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We heard his footsteps recede down the hallway.
Arthur looked at me, his breathing shallow. "Take the box. Get Leo out of this house before dawn. Gabriel is waiting at the old mill by the river—two miles south of the estate gates. Go, Clara. Save my grandson."
