Chapter 12 - The Ghost of Apartment 4B
The name hung in the dining room air like a physical blow.
Olivia dropped her spoon, the sharp metallic clatter ringing off the porcelain plates.
"Clara?" Olivia whispered, shaking her head in disbelief. "Clara Vance? The old woman living in that decaying apartment downtown? How could she possibly file an injunction against a multi-million-dollar estate?"
"According to the transmission from the legal firm, Clara isn't just a recipient of hush-money payments," I said, standing up abruptly from the table, my mind racing through the documents we had uncovered. "She holds a prior, unexecuted marital trust dating back twenty-five years before grandmother even built this empire."
The butler nodded grimly, handing the yellow envelope across the table. "The lawyers are requesting your immediate presence in the downtown municipal courthouse by noon. If you don't contest the injunction, the entire estate freezes indefinitely."
I ripped open the yellow envelope, scanning the legal jargon typed across the official court letterhead.
There it was—a signature bearing grandmother's maiden name, countersigned by Clara Vance as a primary legal beneficiary and co-trustee of the original Vance family assets.
Grandmother hadn't just tested us; she had left behind a detonator.
"She's playing us again," Olivia said, her hands trembling as she pushed her chair back and stood up. "Clara and grandmother—they weren't enemies. They were partners in this entire twisted game."
"Then let's go ask them ourselves," I said, grabbing my coat from the back of the chair. "We're going back to Apartment 4B."
Within thirty minutes, our car was speeding through the congested city traffic, cutting through the grey drizzle toward the decaying residential block on the industrial side of town.
The streets were slick with rain, the neon signs flickering through the misty afternoon haze as we pulled up outside the rusted iron gates of Clara's building.
The front entrance was wide open, the security lock broken off its hinges.
We rushed into the dim, narrow hallway, our boots splashing through puddles of water pooling on the concrete floor.
We climbed the stairs two at a time, reaching the fourth floor in a matter of seconds.
Door 4B was standing slightly ajar, a sliver of pale light cutting across the dark corridor.
I pushed the door open with the palm of my hand.
The living room was completely empty. The stacks of yellowed newspapers were gone, the cardboard boxes packed away, and the old rocking chair sat motionless in the center of the bare room.
The only thing left in the room was a single envelope resting on the wooden floorboards, bearing my name written in familiar, elegant cursive.
I walked across the empty room, picked up the envelope, and tore it open.
May you like
A single key fell out into my palm, accompanied by a handwritten note.
If you wanted the truth, you should have looked at the back of the photograph.
