Chapter 22 - The Ghost of Blackwood Ridge
Sleep was an impossibility. For the rest of the night, Luke sat in the armchair by Sophie’s bedroom door with the brass security rod wedged under the knob, while I paced the kitchen island downstairs, the polaroid photograph and the antique music box sitting between two cooling mugs of black coffee.
Every time I looked at the photograph, my stomach churned. The man in the picture was undeniably Thomas Sterling—Luke’s late father. He had the same broad jawline, the same contemplative gray eyes that Luke had inherited. But the infant he held against his woolen coat had dark, almond-shaped eyes and a tuft of thick black hair. Neither Luke nor Tessa had ever looked like that.
More importantly, the background of the shot didn't look like the sprawling suburban estate Eleanor had cultivated. It was rugged, untamed mountain country. Blackwood Ridge.
At six in the morning, Sophie woke up. Luke and I immediately shifted into protective parent mode, smoothing our faces into relaxed smiles, masking the terror that had aged us five years overnight. We made pancakes—pancakes made from certified allergen-free oat flour, cooked on her designated skillet, served on her beloved blue ceramic plate.
"Mom, can Grandma Eleanor come to my school presentation on Friday?" Sophie asked around a mouthful of syrup, swinging her feet against the kitchen stool. "Aunt Tessa said she was going to buy me a new dress for it."
Luke and I exchanged a brief, heavy glance across the counter. The poison ran deep; even after the birthday disaster, Tessa had still tried to whisper promises into our daughter’s ear before we cut off direct communication.
"Sweetheart," Luke said gently, leaning down to wipe a smear of syrup from her cheek. "Aunt Tessa and Grandma Eleanor are taking a little break right now. Remember what we talked about? When people don't respect the rules that keep you safe, we have to take some space."
Sophie looked down at her blue plate, tracing the smooth glaze with her fork. "Because of the cake?"
"Because of everything," I said softly, kissing the crown of her head. "Because keeping you safe is Mommy and Daddy’s number one job in the whole world. And nobody gets to compromise that. Not even family."
By eight o’clock, my mother arrived. I had called her at dawn, explaining only that Luke and I had an urgent legal matter regarding Thomas’s estate that required us to drive up into the foothills. My mother, who had despised Eleanor Sterling from the moment she met her twenty years ago, didn't ask unnecessary questions. She packed an overnight bag, brought her knitting, and locked the front deadbolt behind us with an understanding nod.
"Take your time," my mother said through the cracked window of our SUV. "I’ve got the alarm set, and the sheriff’s deputy down the road owes your father a favor. Nobody sets foot on this driveway."
As Luke backed the SUV down our gravel drive and turned toward the state highway heading north into the mountains, the morning sun was pale and cold, obscured by low-hanging winter clouds.
"I called the family attorney's old paralegal this morning," Luke said, his hands gripping the steering wheel at ten and two. His knuckles were pale. "Before Marcus Vance died, he kept private files that Eleanor never had access to. The paralegal told me something that made my blood run cold."
"What did she say?" I asked, turning toward him, my seatbelt digging into my shoulder.
"She said that six months before my father died, he altered his private will. Not the corporate will that divided Sterling Enterprises between Eleanor, Tessa, and me. A private, handwritten trust established under an anonymous LLC." Luke swallowed hard, his throat working. "Eleanor found out about it while he was in the hospice ward. The night he slipped into a coma, Eleanor fired Marcus Vance and replaced him with the corporate vultures she still employs today. The private trust vanished from the records."
May you like
"And the baby in the photograph?"
Luke looked at me, his jaw set like iron. "Tessa isn't Eleanor's only daughter. And I'm not her only son. But whatever my father did at Blackwood Ridge... Eleanor spent three decades of corporate money trying to bury it alive."
