Chapter 7 - The Auction of Secrets
By mid-February, Lorraine was out on bail, but the conditions of her release barred her from coming within five hundred yards of the estate or contacting Zia and me. Desperate for funds to pay her high-priced defense attorneys, she did something that shocked even her closest sycophants: she put her private personal archives—decades of family photo albums, journals, and private correspondence—up for public auction at a local estate liquidation house.
When Travis found out, he didn't try to block it. He bought a ticket to the auction.
I went with him. The auction room smelled of old paper, dust, and damp wool. Auctioneer’s hammers banged rhythmically as boxes of Lorraine’s past were sold off to curious antique dealers and neighborhood gossips.
Lot 412 came up. A heavy leather-bound journal labeled Private: L. Miller - 1985-1995.
"Opening bid at fifty dollars," the auctioneer called out.
Travis raised his hand. "Five thousand."
The room went dead silent. Heads turned to stare at us. The auctioneer blinked, stammering, "Five... five thousand dollars? Do I hear ten?"
No one dared compete with that kind of fury. The hammer fell with a sharp crack. Sold to the gentleman in the front.
Later that evening, sitting by the living room fireplace, Travis opened the leather-bound journal. The pages were filled with neat, rigid cursive. I watched his face as his eyes scanned the decades-old entries, his expression shifting from curiosity to profound, shattering shock.
"What is it?" I asked, setting my coffee cup down.
Travis didn't answer for a long moment. He turned the book around and pointed to a page dated November 14, 1988.
I read the words:
Travis showed too much affection for the housekeeper's child today. I had to remind him where he stands in this family. Blood dictates everything. If you aren't born into the inner circle, you are nothing more than a permanent guest in our world.
I stared at Travis, chills running down my spine.
"It wasn't just about Zia," Travis whispered, his voice cracking. "It was about me, too. Thirty years ago, my mother did the exact same thing to a little boy whose parents worked for her. She made him feel like an interloper in his own home until he learned to beg for her approval."
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He closed the book with a heavy thud, staring into the flames of the fireplace.
"She didn't just hate Zia because she’s my stepdaughter," Travis said, tears finally spilling over his lashes. "She hated Zia because Zia looked at me and saw a father who loved unconditionally—something my mother never knew how to be."
