Chapter 3 - The Search for the Truth
Forty-eight hours after my surgery, I was officially discharged from the hospital.
I didn't return to the small apartment I had rented during my college years. Instead, Wyatt drove us straight to Arthur’s estate—the massive, historic brick manor sitting on fifty acres of rolling timberland just outside Raleigh.
For six years, my parents had occupied the main house, throwing lavish dinner parties and presenting themselves as wealthy high-society philanthropists, while keeping Arthur locked in the converted carriage house at the rear of the woods.
Now, the main house was empty, sealed by police tape until Samuel Grayson secured a court order granting Arthur and me immediate, exclusive possession.
When the front door swung open, the air inside smelled of stale expensive perfume and vanity. Oil paintings of my father hung in the grand foyer. Designer bags belonging to Melanie were carelessly tossed across the marble console tables.
Wyatt walked beside me, carrying my overnight bag, while Arthur stepped into his old study for the first time in six years.
“Look at this place,” Arthur muttered, his voice trembling with a mixture of sadness and disgust as he touched his hand to his old mahogany desk. “They lived like royalty off the blood of my company while they fed me canned soup through a locked door.”
“That ends today, Grandpa,” I said, walking over to the large floor-to-ceiling bookshelf behind the desk.
Samuel Grayson had instructed us to search for Richard’s private ledger—the physical record he used to track the embezzled funds and the offshore accounts he had set up in Panama using Arthur’s stolen identity.
Wyatt stepped up beside me, inspecting the dark oak paneling. “If Richard is as arrogant as Detective Beckett says, he wouldn't trust an electronic bank. He’d keep physical hard copies of the passwords and account numbers.”
Wyatt began tapping along the woodwork until he reached a decorative column near the fireplace. A hollow thud echoed back.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small pocket knife, and carefully pried open the thin seam along the carved wood. The panel popped open with a soft click, revealing a steel, key-card-operated wall safe.
“A digital lock,” Wyatt noted, examining the keypad.
“Try my birthday,” I said suddenly.
Wyatt looked at me, surprised. “Your birthday?”
“Richard was narcissistically obsessed with my birthday because it was the day the trust vested,” I explained. “He viewed that date as his personal deadline.”
Wyatt entered the six digits: 10-24-00.
The lock chimed green, and the heavy steel door swung open.
Inside rested three thick black binders, four USB drives, a stack of cashier's checks totaling over three million dollars, and a sealed manila folder marked: Sadie - Discreditation Strategy.
I pulled the manila folder out first and opened it on the desk.
Inside were photographs taken of me over the last two years—at work, at the grocery store, at dinner with Wyatt. Attached to the photos were receipts from a private investigator Richard had hired to follow me, searching for any scrap of scandal he could use to prove I was 'unstable' or 'unfit' to inherit Arthur’s estate.
On the final page was a typed memorandum written by my mother, Evelyn, dated three weeks ago:
“If Melanie cannot seduce Wyatt Vance by the fifteenth, Richard will execute Phase Two during the engagement announcement. A physical altercation will force Sadie into a psychiatric evaluation. Wyatt’s business reputation cannot withstand a public scandal involving an unstable fiancée. He will either abandon her or pay us to settle the estate out of court.”
Wyatt read the paper over my shoulder, his breathing turning heavy and dangerous. His hands clenched into fists so tight his knuckles turned white.
“They planned to frame you as insane,” Wyatt said, his voice dropping an octave. “They weren't just trying to steal your money, Sadie. They wanted to destroy your mind.”
“They tried,” I said, picking up the black binders containing the international account numbers and handing them to Samuel Grayson, who had just walked into the study. “But they failed. Mr. Grayson, take these directly to the District Attorney and the IRS federal investigators.”
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Grayson took the binders, his eyes lighting up with professional satisfaction. “With this evidence, Sadie, the federal government will freeze every asset Richard and Evelyn hold within twenty-four hours. They won't even have enough money left to pay their defense attorneys.”
“Good,” I said, turning to look out the grand window at the sun setting over the timberland. “Let them use public defenders. Just like they left my grandfather with nothing.”
