“You said my father died in the crash.”
“He did.”
“But Mrs. Vale said my mother came here that night.”
“Yes.”
“With me?”
Edmund said nothing.
A sick understanding crawled through me.
“I was here,” I whispered.
His silence answered.
I stepped closer. “I was in this house the night my father died?”
“You were an infant.”
“And my mother took me and ran?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Edmund’s face seemed carved from stone.
“Because she believed the crash was not meant for her.”
I stared at him.
“Then who?”
For the first time, Edmund looked away.
“You.”
The room swayed.
I grabbed the dresser.
The tea rattled in its cup.
Outside, thunder rolled over the hills.
By evening, I had met the lawyer representing the Ashborne Trust, a woman named Helena Cross, whose black suit and calm eyes made her seem less like an attorney and more like someone trained to survive wars without blinking.
She laid documents across a long dining table while I sat beneath a chandelier worth more than every apartment I had ever rented.
“The trust has been in protective suspension since your mother’s disappearance,” Helena explained. “Your grandfather retained personal control, but he suffered a stroke six years ago. Mr. Quillan has acted as steward since then.”
“Edmund controls everything?”
“Temporarily,” she said. “Until the rightful heir is confirmed.”
“That’s me?”