Samuel Greene’s office smelled of leather, rain, and old paper.
Outside the tall windows, Charleston was waking beneath a gray November sky, car tires whispering over wet streets, church bells sounding somewhere beyond the rooftops. Inside, everything felt too still, as if the room itself were holding its breath.
I stared at the first page of Evelyn Whitaker’s will until the words blurred.
My name was there.
Not tucked into a small paragraph. Not listed beside a sentimental token or a polite gift of appreciation.
My name was everywhere.
Grace Anne Caldwell.
Samuel watched me carefully across his mahogany desk.
“Mrs. Caldwell,” he said gently, “Evelyn left you her primary residence, the Whitaker house on King Street, her personal accounts, her art collection, and controlling interest in Whitaker Holdings.”
I blinked.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “Controlling interest in what?”
Samuel folded his hands.
“Whitaker Holdings is the private company that owns nearly six blocks of commercial and residential property downtown, two parcels on the waterfront, and several historic buildings currently being targeted for redevelopment.”
My skin went cold.
Redevelopment.
The same word Ethan had said at dinner while Miranda Sterling laughed beside him.
Samuel reached into the folder and removed another document. “There’s more. Evelyn also left a letter for you. But before I give it to you, I need you to understand something very important.”
He leaned forward.
“Last month, a development group made an aggressive offer to purchase Whitaker Holdings’ waterfront parcels. Evelyn refused. After that, she became concerned someone was trying to pressure her. She asked me to review all her documents and secure the company records.”
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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