Chapter 7 - The Midnight RaidMidnight in Upper Saddle River, New Jersey, was pitch black.
The Whitaker estate looked like a haunted mausoleum under the heavy, cloud-covered sky. Since my mother’s retreat to Florida, the mansion was supposedly empty, managed only by a skeleton crew of groundskeepers and security guards who patrolled the perimeter every two hours.
I parked my black SUV a half-mile down the winding wooded lane, cutting the headlights and the engine. I stepped out into the freezing drizzle, pulling the collar of my wool coat up high. I needed answers, and I wasn't going to wait for a court order to get them.
Using a set of master keys I had kept from my youth, I bypassed the side service entrance silently. The interior of the mansion smelled of old dust, expensive leather, and polished mahogany. The grand foyer was cast in ghostly shadows from the streetlights filtering through the stained-glass dome above.
I moved with absolute stealth, navigating the familiar corridors until I reached my late grandfather’s private study—a subterranean room lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and locked cabinets that held the family's oldest secrets.
The heavy oak door was unlocked.
My heart hammered against my ribs as I stepped inside, clicking on a small tactical flashlight. The beam cut through the darkness, illuminating the grand mahogany desk where my grandfather had ruled his corporate empire for decades.
I crossed the room, dropped to my knees, and pulled open the bottom drawer.
It was jammed tight, swollen by decades of humidity. I braced my hand against the side of the desk and gave it a hard, violent yank.
CRACK.
The wooden stop splintered, and the drawer slid all the way out, spilling a cloud of dust and yellowed envelopes onto the Persian rug.
I sifted through the old ledgers, property deeds, and stock certificates until my fingers brushed against a thick manila folder labeled with a single word in my grandfather’s handwriting: JULIAN.
I flicked it open. Inside were legal documents, financial wire receipts... and a medical report dated six years ago.
My breath caught in my throat as I read the hospital letterhead. It wasn't from a standard clinic. It was from a private psychiatric facility in Westchester.
And the patient's name wasn't Mara.
It was Brielle Cartwright.
Stapled to the medical report was a signed contract between Arthur Cartwright, my mother Eleanor, and a third party whose signature had been aggressively blacked out with heavy black marker.
I pulled out my phone, turning on the flashlight app to inspect the blacked-out signature closer. With my thumbnail, I scratched gently at the thick ink, trying to peel back the layer of marker.
Suddenly, a floorboard creaked behind me in the doorway.
"Looking for family heirlooms, stepson?"
I spun around so fast my shoulder slammed into the edge of the desk.
Standing in the doorway, holding a silver-barreled revolver with absolute calm, was a man I hadn't seen in five years.
May you like
Marcus—my personal assistant.
The man who had supposedly been fiercely loyal to me through every corporate crisis, every board meeting, and every family scandal.
