Grayhaven.
My mother’s childhood home.
The house my father had refused to sell after she died. The house he had placed in a protected family trust before Preston and I married.
No one outside the family discussed Grayhaven.
Not ever.
Sloane saw my face. “What is it?”
I did not answer.
I opened the library door.
“Eleanor,” I said. “Find Mason.”
Within ten minutes, we were back in the east salon. Mason plugged the flash drive into Eleanor’s secured laptop while my father watched from beside the fire, his expression carved from stone.
Files appeared across the screen.
Invoices. Draft agreements. Private messages. Scanned letters. Spreadsheets labeled with harmless names that did not feel harmless at all.
Mason opened one folder marked GH.
My father’s hand tightened around his cane.
Inside was a draft purchase proposal for Grayhaven.
Buyer: Northstar Heritage LLC.
Seller authorization: pending trustee consent.
Mason swore under his breath.
I leaned closer. “Who owns Northstar Heritage?”
Eleanor searched quickly, her fingers moving with elegant precision.
A corporate filing appeared.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Then Mason said, “That can’t be right.”
My father’s face had gone gray.
I read the name twice.
Northstar Heritage LLC was not controlled by Preston.
It was controlled by my father’s former chief financial officer, Alistair Crane, a man who had retired two years earlier after serving our family for nearly three decades.
My father whispered, “Alistair?”
The name carried disbelief, old friendship, and a grief that had not yet found its shape.