Chapter 21 - The Unclaimed Estate
The dust had barely settled over Marcus Vance’s indictment when a courier arrived at the Paradise Valley ranch bearing an old, unsealed envelope stamped with the crest of a Swiss banking conglomerate.
It wasn't from Lorraine. It was from our father’s private executor, who had passed away two weeks prior, leaving instructions that the packet only be opened after the total collapse of the old corporate guard.
Julian and I sat at the heavy oak kitchen table while Tessa poured coffee. I slit the heavy parchment paper with a letter opener. Inside was a single, handwritten codicil to our father’s will, dated just weeks before his death, along with the title deed to an asset neither of us knew existed: The San Lucas Vineyard, a sprawling, neglected estate nestled high in the high-altitude hills of northern New Mexico.
"A vineyard?" Julian raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair with a dry chuckle. "What are we supposed to do with acres of dead vines and a crumbling adobe mansion in the middle of nowhere?"
"Father bought it back in the seventies before Lorraine forced him to liquidate his personal passions," I murmured, running my thumb over the embossed signature. "She thought it was a worthless distraction from the real estate empire. But according to these ledger notes, it was the only thing he ever truly owned free and clear of her corporate control."
Tessa leaned over my shoulder, her eyes catching a secondary note tucked inside the back of the envelope. It was a photograph—faded and yellowed at the edges—showing a young woman with laughing eyes and dark hair standing beside a younger version of my father, smiling under the shade of a weeping willow tree.
"Look at the back of the photo," Tessa whispered.
I flipped it over. Written in my father’s unsteady hand were three words: To find peace.
May you like
Julian went quiet. The cynical, defensive armor he had worn since our meeting in the desert airplane graveyard seemed to crack just a fraction. For forty-seven years, we had both been molded, starved, or discarded by the toxic machinery of the Whitlock dynasty.
"Pack your bags," I said, looking up at my brother and then at Tessa, a sudden, resolute clarity washing over me. "We're going to New Mexico."
