Chapter 4 - Behind Door 4B
The apartment was pitch black except for the pale blue glow of a television screen casting long, dancing shadows across the peeling wallpaper.
The air inside smelled stale, heavy with the scent of old books, medicine, and unwashed wool.
"Hello?" I called out, my voice trembling slightly in the damp silence.
No one answered. Only the low, monotone drone of a news anchor echoed from the television set in the living room.
Olivia grabbed the sleeve of my coat, holding me back. "We shouldn't go in. This is trespassing."
"The door was already open," I whispered, stepping across the threshold. "We have to find out why grandmother was here."
We crept down the narrow hallway, our eyes adjusting to the dim light.
The living room was cluttered with stacks of yellowed newspapers, cardboard boxes, and framed photographs turned face down against the wall.
In the center of the room sat an old rocking chair, facing away from us toward the window.
A blanket was draped over the back of the chair, and a frail hand rested limply on the armrest.
My breath caught in my throat.
"Is someone there?" I asked, stepping forward.
The rocking chair slowly began to turn.
As it rotated toward us, the light from the television illuminated a woman's face.
She was elderly, her hair thin and snow-white, her skin lined with deep wrinkles. But her eyes—sharp, dark, and piercing—were entirely lucid.
She stared straight at us, not with fear, but with a chilling sense of recognition.
"You're late," the woman said, her voice raspy like dry leaves scraping across pavement.
"We... we're sorry," Olivia stammered, stepping into the room. "We didn't mean to intrude. The door was open."
The old woman let out a dry, rattling laugh.
"The door is always open for blood," she said, leaning forward. "Which one of you is the lawyer's messenger?"
"We aren't messengers," I said, keeping my distance. "Our grandmother passed away. We came to ask about the payments."
The woman's dark eyes locked onto mine.
She studied my face inch by inch, her gaze lingering on my jawline, my eyes, and finally, my wrists.
"You have her hands," the old woman whispered. "And you wear her silence."
"Who are you?" I demanded, my patience snapping under the weight of the tension. "Why did my grandmother pay you five thousand dollars every month for eighteen years?"
Clara Vance slowly reached out a bony finger and pointed directly at me.
"Because eighteen years ago, your grandmother walked through that exact door carrying a newborn baby wrapped in a wool blanket."
The room seemed to spin.
Olivia gasped, covering her mouth with both hands.
"What are you talking about?" I choked out, my voice breaking. "I grew up in the mansion. I am a blood relative."
"You are blood," Clara rasped, leaning back in her chair with a heavy sigh. "Just not the blood you think."
She reached into the pocket of her cardigan and pulled out a worn, leather-bound envelope identical to the ones the lawyer had given us.
"She knew she was dying," Clara said, tossing the envelope onto the coffee table. "She left instructions that if her true children ever came looking for the truth, I was to give them this."
Olivia lunged forward and grabbed the envelope, ripping it open before I could move.
She pulled out a single sheet of paper and began to read.
As her eyes scanned the lines, all the color vanished from her face.
She dropped the paper, her hands shaking violently.
"What does it say?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
Olivia looked at me with tears streaming down her cheeks.
"It says... grandmother didn't adopt us."
Before I could process her words, the front door of the apartment suddenly burst open with a loud crash.
Heavy footsteps echoed down the hallway.
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"Clara!" a desperate voice shouted from the entrance. "Where is the ledger? Give it to me before they find out!"
It was Daniel.
