Chapter 2 - The Folder Under the Blanket
Inside the SUV, the air smelled of wet leather, rainwater, and the peppermint mints Thomas kept in the console.
Ethan sat hunched beneath the blanket with both hands wrapped around the blue folder.
He held it as though someone might break through the tinted glass and steal it.
"Take us to St. Catherine's," I told Thomas.
"Use the emergency entrance, and don't speed on the wet roads."
Thomas nodded and called ahead through the vehicle's hands-free system while I settled beside my brother.
Our aunt's outline disappeared in the rear window as the gate lights fell behind us.
I wanted that sight to feel like victory.
Instead I watched Ethan flinch every time a passing truck splashed water against the SUV.
"I'm sorry," I said quietly.
He looked up.
"For what?"
"For leaving you alone with her."
His mouth tightened.
"You didn't know."
"I knew she could be cruel."
"Not like tonight."
He rubbed his swollen cheek, then stopped when it hurt.
"She said you weren't coming back until tomorrow."
"My meetings ended early."
"She counted on you being away."
I stared at the folder.
Our father, Jonathan Mercer, had written ETHAN—PRIVATE in his small, careful block letters.
Jonathan had died two years earlier after a long illness, leaving my younger brother and me a house full of memories and a family relationship neither of us fully understood.
I was thirty-two now and had spent most of my adult life taking responsibility for companies, properties, and other people's payrolls.
Ethan had always been the gentler of us.
He worked as a restoration assistant at a Chicago architectural museum and cared more about protecting old buildings than collecting new ones.
He still played piano when he was nervous, still bought used books with handwritten inscriptions, and still called me when an appliance made a strange noise.
Helena considered all those qualities evidence that he was weak.
"Tell me what happened before I arrived," I said.
He looked down at his scraped knuckles.
"She invited herself for a week to discuss a memorial dinner for Dad."
That part I knew.
I had granted her temporary guest access after she promised to stay only three nights, use the downstairs guest suite, and leave the household staff alone.
It was the third day.
"She started asking about Father's documents," Ethan continued.
"She wanted the blue folder from the study safe."
"How did you get it?"
"Dad gave me the spare combination before he got sick."
That surprised me.
Ethan caught the expression on my face.
"He said if anyone ever told me I wasn't part of the family, I should read what he left."
The words were so specific that a chill moved through me.
"Did you read it?"
"Only the first page."
He hesitated.
"She caught me in the study and said I had stolen business records."
"Then what?"
"She had a packet waiting on the dining room table and told me I had to sign an affidavit."
"What affidavit?"
"That you were incapable of managing the estate and that Dad had promised her the mansion."
I felt my pulse quicken.
"Did you sign anything?"
"No."
He swallowed.
"She told me I had until midnight, then she tried to take the folder."
The SUV turned beneath the hospital canopy.
A nurse met us with a wheelchair, but Ethan insisted on walking until his injured knee buckled and he reluctantly sat down.
I watched the nurse examine his cheek and shoulder, then waited as a physician assessed his knee and ordered imaging to rule out a fracture.
We were fortunate.
He had bruising, a sprained knee, and a strained shoulder, but no broken bones or serious head injury.
The doctor photographed visible marks with consent and documented his account of the assault.
Ethan had to hear every detail repeated, and each retelling seemed to leave him smaller in the hospital bed.
I offered to speak for him.
He shook his head.
"She already speaks for me too much."
Detective Nina Alvarez arrived just after midnight, her navy coat spotted with rain.
She introduced herself to Ethan before addressing me, an ordinary kindness I appreciated more than I could say.
She separated us briefly so he could explain events without feeling pressured by my presence.
When I was invited back, she asked about the gate recording and the two slaps I had delivered in retaliation.
I admitted them without minimizing anything.
"I reacted badly," I said.
"I stopped when I realized he needed me more than she needed an answer."
Alvarez wrote it down.
"The footage will help establish the sequence," she replied.
"But understand that everyone involved will be evaluated on their own conduct."
I respected that.
Power had taught Helena to expect special exceptions, and I wanted the opposite of that for all of us.
I supplied Marcus's phone number, the guest-access agreement, and the address of the security recording server.
Alvarez explained that evidence would be preserved and the assault investigated rather than decided by our family name or the value of our house.
At 1:40 in the morning, she departed to coordinate with the officers who had attended the estate.
Ethan lay back on the pillow, exhausted.
"Do you think she'll go to jail?" he asked.
"I don't know."
"She said the police work for people like her."
"She said plenty of things that were untrue."
He shifted the folder toward me.
"What if this makes everything worse?"
I looked at the handwriting across the cover.
Our father's ink had faded slightly at the edges, but the instruction remained unmistakable.
"Then we handle what comes next together," I said.
Ethan finally loosened his grip.
Inside the folder was a letter, a set of dated financial statements, and an envelope marked with the name of a law firm I had never hired.
The letter began with an apology from our father.
He apologized not for the ownership of the estate, but for failing to tell us what Helena had done when we were children.
May you like
Halfway through the first page, one sentence stopped me cold.
"If your aunt tries to convince either of you that the family home belongs to her, remember that she has made the same claim before."
