Chapter 2 - Exile From The Glass Castle
The grandfather clock in the foyer struck eight as I walked back up the stairs, leaving my parents staring after me in stunned silence. They expected me to beg, to cry, and to trade my inheritance for a warm bed and their conditional approval.
Instead, I packed two suitcases with ruthless efficiency, leaving behind every piece of designer clothing they had ever bought me. I kept only my personal documents, my laptop, and the leather-bound journal my grandfather had left me.
By ten in the morning, I stood on the front steps of the Kingsley estate, waiting for the rideshare I had ordered on my phone. The massive iron gates loomed behind me, a symbol of a gilded cage I was finally escaping.
Grant appeared on the porch, leaning against a white marble pillar with a toothpick between his teeth and a smirk on his face.
“Idiots like you don’t survive on the real street, Evie,” Grant mocked, crossing his arms over his chest. “Dad’s going to sue you into oblivion once he finds a loophole in Grandfather’s sloppy wording.”
“Let him try,” I replied calmly, lifting my suitcase into the trunk of the arriving car. “Tell Dad to check the trust documents before he wastes any more money on incompetent lawyers.”
As the car pulled away, I watched Grant’s smug expression falter into genuine confusion in the rearview mirror. I checked into a modest, secure boutique hotel downtown using a credit card tied to my personal account, far away from the family’s watchful eyes.
Sitting on the edge of the queen-sized bed, I opened my grandfather’s journal to find a hidden pocket tucked inside the back cover. Inside was a single key and a handwritten note with an address in the industrial district of Chicago.
If they try to push you out, go to 442 West Madison, Unit B, the note read in Grandfather Robert’s familiar, sharp handwriting. Ask for Marcus.
Intrigued and hyper-aware that my family was not going to let three million dollars slip away quietly, I locked my room and hailed another car downtown. The address led to a nondescript brick warehouse tucked behind an auto-repair shop, smelling faintly of old paper and engine oil.
I pushed open the heavy steel door, a small bell chiming overhead as I stepped into a room filled with towering metal filing cabinets. A tall, broad-shouldered man with iron-gray hair and sharp blue eyes looked up from a cluttered oak desk.
“Can I help you?” the man asked, his voice gravelly but not unkind.
“My name is Evelyn Kingsley,” I said, placing the key on his desk. “My grandfather sent me.”
Marcus stared at the key for a long, silent moment before standing up slowly from his chair.
“Robert Hale,” Marcus murmured, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. “I’ve been expecting you, Evie. Your father has been tearing apart your grandfather’s old business records looking for leverage.”
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“What kind of leverage?” I asked, my heart skipping a beat as the stakes suddenly multiplied.
“The kind that puts people in federal prison,” Marcus replied, pulling a thick manila folder from the bottom drawer of his desk.
