We still have the deposit box, he said. Whatever’s inside might help explain who really owns what. But do we really want to open another box? I asked, trying to keep my voice from cracking.
What if all it does is make things worse? Claire sat beside me. Then, at least you’ll know. The not knowing, it’s what’s killing you.
She was right. So we made a plan. First, the bank.
Then, if things still didn’t make sense, we’d find someone who could tell us the truth. Thomas had to have had a fallback. A contact.
Someone who knew what the hell he was involved in. That’s when Logan said, there’s a name my mother mentioned once. Edward Holloway.
Dad’s old college friend. She said, he was the only one who ever told Thomas the truth, even when he didn’t want to hear it. Do you know where he is? I think so, Logan said.
Mom had his address in Savannah. She kept it in a box of emergency contacts. So we drove.
A two-hour trip in silence. Rain trailing down the windshield like streaks of memory. Savannah greeted us with oak trees and damp air and the kind of stillness that only old towns seemed to carry.
Edward lived in a tall brick house covered in ivy, like something pulled from a forgotten novel. He opened the door slowly. You’re Vivian, he said without hesitation, and you must be Logan.
You knew we’d come? I asked. He nodded. Thomas said, if it all comes apart, they’ll find you.
He stepped back. Come in. Inside, his house smelled like paper and pipe smoke.
Bookshelves lined the walls. A piano sat in the corner, untouched but polished. He motioned for us to sit, then disappeared into another room and returned with a sealed envelope.
He left this with me, Edward said, said it was only to be opened if both of you showed up together. I looked at Logan. He nodded.
I opened the envelope. Inside was a short handwritten letter and a second will. This one was different.
It named the child Rachel was carrying. It assigned twenty-five percent of Thomas’s private savings offshore unspecified to the child once they turned twenty-one. I felt the blood drain from my face.
He planned for everything, even this. And with that, I realized we were standing at the center of a storm Thomas had built brick by brick. And now it was on us to survive it.
I stared at the will again, at the name, unborn child of Rachel Carter, twenty-five percent, to be held in trust until age twenty-one. It wasn’t the money that stunned me. It was the precision.
Thomas had planned this, all of it. Even after death, he was still three steps ahead. Why would he name the baby but not Rachel? I asked Edward.
Because he trusted the child, Edward said gently, not the mother. Logan shifted in his seat. This changes everything.
It means Rachel can’t touch that money, not legally. I looked down at the second will again. And if she tries? Edward nodded toward the flash drive.
Then you use that. From what Thomas told me, it contains detailed records of every transfer, every partner, every crime they committed to build this thing. If they push you, you push back.
Claire exhaled beside me. You have leverage. For the first time since Thomas died, I didn’t feel small.
I didn’t feel like the woman who’d been lied to, cheated on, and left with broken pieces. I felt like the only one left holding the blueprint. And that was power.
Logan leaned forward. Vivian, I think it’s time we stop reacting. We need to make a move.
Before Gordon or Crane does. I nodded slowly. We go to the bank.
We drove back into Charleston before noon. The Federal Trust building sat nestled between a law office and a historic inn. Discreet and unassuming.
The kind of place you’d walk by a hundred times without noticing. Until it mattered. Claire stayed in the car.
Just text if it gets weird, she said. And if they don’t let you in, cry. Nobody says no to a woman crying at a bank.
Logan smiled at that. I didn’t. Inside, the vault manager looked at the silver key, checked my ID, and raised an eyebrow.
It’s been years since anyone accessed this box, he said. It was registered under a corporate shield, Mercury South Holdings. He led us into the basement, past layers of security doors and concrete.
The air grew colder, the silence thicker, and then we were alone with the safe deposit box. He handed me gloves. Standard procedure, he said.
We’ll give you privacy. The door closed behind us. My fingers hovered over the lock.
Ready? Logan asked. No. But I did it anyway.
The key turned smoothly. The box slid out. Inside wasn’t cash.
No passports. No burner phones. No stacks of untraceable bills.
Just one manila folder and a photograph. The photo was of Thomas, Logan, and Gordon Blake, standing in front of a black SUV, arms crossed, laughing, and behind them, Victor Crane. I stared at the photo for a long time.
They weren’t just business associates, I said. They were a team. Logan opened the folder.
Dozens of signed agreements, shell company registrations, payoffs, and one document marked Crane Blackmail Insurance in bold red ink. It wasn’t just leverage. It was a loaded gun.
Thomas kept proof, I whispered. Of everything. And in that moment, I understood.
He hadn’t just left me a mess. He’d left me a weapon. Now it was my choice who to aim it at.
We didn’t go home. We went to the lawyer. His name was Marcus Doyle, and he’d represented my father’s estate years ago.
Straightforward, discreet, and allergic to drama. I told him everything. Almost.
Not about the affair. Not about Rachel. Just the parts that mattered legally.
The documents, the threats, the offshore accounts. He didn’t blink. Do you want to press charges? He asked.
No, I said. I want insurance. He nodded.
Then we’ll copy everything. Digitally. Physically.
Store backups in three locations. One here. One with you.
And one with someone not connected to you. I know just the person, Claire said, smiling grimly. We spent hours scanning files.
Thomas had kept meticulous records. Names, dates, wire logs, fake invoices. It wasn’t just shady business.
It was criminal enterprise. International. And with Thomas gone, they thought the evidence had vanished.
They were wrong. By the end of the day, Marcus had drafted a simple letter. I added one line at the bottom in my own handwriting.
Try me. VC. We sent it to Gordon Blake’s office via courier.
He called within 15 minutes. You think you’re clever, he hissed into the phone. You’re in over your head.
No, I replied calmly. You are. Because the next call I make is to the IRS.
And after that, Interpol. There was a pause. Then laughter.
All right, he said. What do you want? Nothing, I said. I just want you to stop.
No calls. No threats. No late night warnings.
You touch me or anyone I know and the folder goes public. Every file. Every signature.
You don’t want that kind of trouble. I already have that kind of trouble, I said. The difference is I’m not afraid of it anymore.
He hung up. Two hours later, Victor Crane called. His tone was different.
Smooth. Polished. Like a man used to charming his way through locked doors.
Vivian, he said, like we were old friends. I’ve heard about your discoveries. I think we’re starting off on the wrong foot.
There is no foot, I said. Just your signature on a dozen illegal transfers. He laughed softly.
All hypothetical, of course. I let the silence stretch. Then I said, I know you think you can handle this, but here’s the thing, Mr. Crane.
I have no reputation to lose. No company to protect. I have nothing left of the life I knew.
And that makes me very, very dangerous. That shut him up. I ended the call.
Logan and I sat on Claire’s porch that night. The flash drive in his pocket. A copy of the folder buried in the planter box behind us.
Paranoid? Maybe. But when you’ve been lied to by the person you trusted most, paranoia starts to feel like survival. I didn’t know he was capable of all this, Logan said quietly.
My mom, she always said he was complicated. But I thought she meant sad. Not corrupt.
He was both, I said. And maybe more. I stared up at the stars, cold and steady above us.
We’re not done yet, I said. There’s one more thing we haven’t opened. Logan frowned.
What? The flash drive. The flash drive was small. Black.
Unmarked. Like it had nothing to say unless you asked the right way. We didn’t open it that night.
Or the next morning. It took me two days. Two days of preparing myself for whatever truth was still waiting.
Two days of rehearsing my reactions, as if practicing would make betrayal feel any less sharp. Logan sat beside me on the couch. Claire brought tea again.
No one said a word as I plugged it in. A single folder appeared. For Vivian Inside, one video file.
Dated just ten days before Thomas’ death. My fingers hovered, then clicked. The screen went black, then flickered to life.
Thomas. Not the one I’d seen in wedding photos or seated across from me at dinner. This Thomas looked hollow.
Eyes tired. Shirt wrinkled. Like he hadn’t slept in weeks.
He leaned forward. Vivian, he said. If you’re watching this, it means I didn’t make it.
Or maybe I ran out of time. He sighed and rubbed his face. There’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll just say it.