Chapter 10 - THE ARCHIVE BENEATH THE OLD HOUSE|
We drove to Wisconsin the next morning.
The Whitmore property stood at the end of a long private road bordered by maple trees. It was smaller than the Ashford estate, but it had the quiet dignity of a place that had never needed to impress anyone.
The house had been empty for years.
Dust covered the furniture. The curtains were faded. In the study, my grandfather's old desk remained exactly where I remembered it.
I touched the wooden surface.
For a moment, I was nineteen again, sitting across from him while he explained how to balance a checkbook.
Arthur unlocked the brass door beneath the staircase.
The key from the silver envelope fit perfectly.
A narrow set of steps descended into a temperature-controlled archive.
Shelves lined the walls. Metal cabinets held boxes labeled by year. At the center stood a large table with a green-shaded lamp.
I felt my throat tighten.
“He built all this?” I asked.
“He wanted a place where the original records could survive even if the company did not,” Arthur said.
We searched the files for several hours.
The first boxes contained company registrations, patent documents, and old partnership agreements. The next contained bank statements showing the original capital contributions.
Then we found the blue ledger.
It listed the first major transfers into the company.
Samuel Whitmore had supplied more than sixty percent of the initial funding. Richard Ashford had contributed patents and industry contacts. Their agreement granted equal control despite the unequal contributions.
But the final pages revealed something worse.
Edward Ashford had transferred money from the company into private accounts for years. Samuel had discovered the transfers and demanded repayment.
A handwritten note appeared beside the final entry.
Edward says the company belongs to his bloodline. Richard promised otherwise. If anything happens to me, the original agreement must be found.
I stared at the words.
“Did my grandfather think someone would kill him?”
Arthur did not answer immediately.
Then he opened a small envelope taped to the inside cover.
It contained a photograph.
My grandfather stood beside two men outside the original Ashford factory. One was Richard Ashford.
The other was a young man I recognized immediately.
Nathaniel.
He looked no older than twelve.
On the back, my grandfather had written:
The boy knows more than his father realizes.
I turned the photograph over again.
“Why would Nathaniel be here?”
Arthur examined the date.
“Because he was present when the original agreement was discussed.”
A sound came from upstairs.
A door closing.
Arthur looked toward the staircase.
“Did you lock the front entrance?”
“Yes.”
He reached for his phone.
Then the archive lights flickered.
A voice came through the speaker system.
“Evelyn?”
I knew that voice.
May you like
Nathaniel.
“I think it's time we stopped pretending this belongs to you.”
