Chapter 2 - The Silent Prisoner
The room fell dead silent. The steady beep-beep-beep of the heart monitor felt deafening.
"What do you mean it doesn't belong to him?" I asked, my brow furrowing beneath the bandages. "My dad bought that house in 1994. He built the back garage himself. He talks about that mortgage every Thanksgiving!"
Eleanor Vance leaned in, resting her palms on the bedrail. "Your father signed a lease-to-own agreement in 1994 with an elder relative—his uncle, Arthur Davis. Arthur was a successful civil engineer who owned three commercial lots in downtown Columbus and the residential estate on Elm Street. According to public records, Arthur vanished in 2008."
"Vanished?" Wyatt echoed. "Like... ran away?"
"Declared legally incompetent and placed under private conservatorship," Eleanor corrected sharp eyes scanning the documents. "The conservator appointed by the probate court was your mother, Brenda Davis. For eighteen years, your parents have been drawing an annuity of twelve thousand dollars a month from Arthur’s estate to 'provide full-time home care' for him."
I felt the blood drain from my face. The image of the old man standing behind the lace curtain flashed through my mind—his wild, white hair, his hollow cheeks, his hand pressed flat against the glass as if trying to push through.
"He didn't vanish," I whispered, my voice shaking so hard my teeth clattered. "He’s in that house. Right now. They’ve been keeping him hidden."
Chief Briggs stepped forward, his entire demeanor changing from cautious investigator to active law enforcement. "Miss Vance, are you telling me Brenda and Gregory Davis are harboring an endangered elder to collect a conservatorship stipend?"
"I’m telling you worse than that, Chief," Eleanor said, pulling a second document from her file. "This is a copy of Arthur Davis’s original 2002 Last Will and Testament, which was lodged with the county clerk before his conservatorship was established. It was sealed under a court order, but my firm managed to obtain an emergency copy through a probate judge thirty minutes ago."
She turned the page toward me.
"Arthur Davis left eighty percent of his real estate portfolio, his commercial holdings, and his liquid trust to his eldest grand-niece," Eleanor read aloud. "To Eleanor 'Sadie' Davis. On the explicit condition that she turns twenty-five or gets married."
My good eye opened wide. "Me?"
"You," Eleanor confirmed. "Your sister, Melanie, was explicitly disinherited in the codicil because of documented behavioral issues and cruelty toward Arthur when she was a teenager. The remaining twenty percent was set aside for a charitable trust."
The pieces fell together with the violent clarity of a collapsing building.
The sudden push for me to marry Wyatt wasn't just about his money. It was about control.
If I married Wyatt without knowing about the will, my parents knew I would likely sign whatever financial paperwork they put in front of me out of familial trust. But when Wyatt sold his company and became a high-profile millionaire, my parents realized I was moving out of their sphere of influence. If I got married, the probate trust would automatically trigger an independent audit of Arthur’s estate.
And if an independent audit happened, they would discover that my parents had been stealing millions from an old man they had locked away in a back bedroom for nearly two decades.
"They didn't hit me because they were angry about dinner," I said, a tear burning as it slipped beneath my left eye bandage. "They hit me because they needed to invalidate me. If they proved I was brain-damaged or incompetent from an injury..."
"They could apply to become your legal guardians," Eleanor finished the thought, her eyes flashing with ice. "They would control your marriage, your money, and Arthur’s trust. They were trying to manufacture an emergency conservatorship."
Wyatt let out a low, guttural roar of pure fury, slamming his fist into the wall beside the door. The drywall cracked under the impact. "Those monsters! They tried to destroy her mind so they could keep their hands in the till!"
Chief Briggs was already on his radio. "Dispatch, this is Unit 1. I need two patrol units and an Adult Protective Services team to respond immediately to 1412 Elm Street. Warrant request incoming for elder abuse, unlawful restraint, and financial fraud. Move fast."
Briggs looked at me, his jaw set hard. "Miss Davis, we’re going into that house right now."
"Take me with you," I said, trying to swing my legs over the edge of the bed.
"Sadie, no!" Wyatt caught my shoulders gently, forcing me back down. "You have a fractured eye socket and three deep lacerations! You can barely stand!"
"I am not staying in this bed while they clean up their crime scene!" I spat out, grabbing Wyatt’s forearms. "Uncle Arthur has been trapped in that house since I was seven years old! They told me he went to a nursing home in Florida! I am going, Wyatt. Put me in a wheelchair if you have to, but I am going to watch them fall."
Wyatt looked at Eleanor, then at Dr. Curtis.
Dr. Curtis sighed, rubbing her temples. "If she goes, a nurse goes with her with an IV bag and pain management. And if her vitals drop, you bring her straight back."
May you like
"Deal," Wyatt said.
Ten minutes later, I was wrapped in a heavy blanket, sitting in a wheelchair pushed by Wyatt, riding in the back of a medical transport van right behind Chief Briggs’s cruiser.
