Chapter 3 - The Ghost of North Wells
Three days after Arthur’s arrest, the cold snap holding Chicago in its grip finally gave way to a bright, clear blue sky. Snow still piled high along the curbs, but the sun blazed down, reflecting blindingly off the icy buildings of the Loop.
I spent the morning sitting in Eleanor Vance’s expansive office on the eighth floor of Liberty Union Bank. On the table between us lay a thick stack of legal filings, ownership transfers, and the physical keys to two commercial buildings located at 842 and 844 North Wells Street.
“The criminal case against Arthur is airtight,” Eleanor said, handing me a steaming cup of dark roast coffee. “The State’s Attorney was thrilled to take it. Mail fraud, bank forgery, and systematic asset stripping—he’s looking at seven to twelve years in a state facility, minimum. His defense lawyer is already reaching out to ask about a plea deal.”
“Tell them no deals,” I said plainly, taking a sip of the hot coffee. “He let my grandfather suffer in a substandard facility while he lived high on the hog. He can serve his time.”
“I expected you’d say that,” Eleanor smiled thinly. “Now, onto your assets. The cash and securities in the trust total three point four million dollars. In addition, the two properties on Wells Street are fully paid off and generate approximately eighteen thousand dollars a month in commercial rent from a bakery and a high-end boutique bookstore on the ground floors.”
She slid the heavy iron keys across the table toward me.
“Your grandfather bought those buildings in the late 1980s,” she added. “He managed them himself until his health began to fail. If you want to sell them, the market value right now is around two point two million.”
I picked up the keys. They felt heavy, cold, and real in my hand. One of them had a worn yellow plastic tag attached to it with my grandfather’s neat, sharp handwriting: Wells St. Main Office.
“I’m not selling them,” I said immediately. “Grandpa loved those buildings. He used to take me to the bakery on Saturday mornings after we finished working in his garage. I want to see them.”
An hour later, I was standing in front of 842 North Wells Street. The building was an exquisite three-story brick structure built in the late nineteenth century, featuring arched stone windows and detailed ironwork along the roofline. On the ground floor, a warm yellow light glowed from behind the large glass window of The Daily Bread Bakery. Next door, at 844, was Page & Parchment Books.
I took a deep breath, wrapped my coat tightly around myself, and walked into the bakery.
A small brass bell chimed above the door. The air inside was incredible—rich with the smell of toasted yeast, melted butter, cinnamon, and freshly brewed espresso. Behind the glass display case, an older woman with bright blue eyes and flour dusting her dark apron looked up from a tray of croissants.
She froze mid-step, her eyes darting from my face down to the heavy iron key ring in my hand.
“My God,” she breathed, setting the tray down on the counter and wiping her hands on her apron. “You… you’re Bob’s granddaughter. Maya, right?”
I blinked in surprise. “You remember me?”
“Remember you?” The woman let out a warm, hearty laugh that filled the cozy bakery. She walked out from behind the counter and pulled me into a brief, fierce hug before I could even react. “Girl, your grandfather talked about you every single week for ten years! I’m Mrs. Gable. My husband and I have leased this space from Bob since 1994.”
Her eyes filled with sudden emotion as she looked at me. “When Bob passed away, that awful son of his—Arthur—came in here with eviction threats. He tried to double our rent by three hundred percent! He said Bob was gone and the old rules didn't apply anymore. We’ve been fighting him in court for two years just to stay open.”
My chest tightened with anger at the mention of Arthur’s name, but Mrs. Gable reached out and took my hand gently.
“We heard on the news this morning that Arthur was arrested for stealing from the estate,” she whispered. “Is it true? Is the property back where it belongs?”
“It’s true,” I said, holding up the keys. “The property is mine now. And your rent goes back to whatever Grandpa set it at. You’re not going anywhere, Mrs. Gable.”
Mrs. Gable let out a ragged breath, covering her mouth with her hand as tears welled in her eyes. “Oh, thank God. Thank God. Bob always said you had his grit. He told me once, right before he went into the hospital, ‘Mrs. Gable, don't you worry about my son. Maya’s going to fix all of this when she comes home.’”
I looked around the small, bustling bakery—at the families sitting at the wooden tables, the warm light, the smells that felt like a bridge straight back to my childhood.
“He really said that?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
“He knew you’d find your way back,” she said firmly. “He trusted you.”
I walked out of the bakery a few minutes later, stepping into the quiet alleyway between the two buildings that led up to a second-floor private entrance. A heavy steel door sat tucked behind an old wrought-iron security gate. I fitted the master key into the lock. It turned with a heavy, satisfying clack.
I pulled the door open and walked up a flights of wooden stairs that creaked under my boots. At the top was a large, open office space that hadn't been cleared out. Sunlight streamed through tall arched windows, illuminating floating dust motes in the air.
It was my grandfather’s old private workshop.
Along the far wall stood a long oak workbench covered in tools: vice grips, tiny brass screwdrivers, oil bottles, and mechanical clock parts laid out in neat wooden trays. A leather armchair sat in the corner beside a small iron stove.
I walked over to the workbench. Tucked beneath an old brass desk lamp was a framed photograph.
I picked it up. It was a picture of me when I was sixteen, wearing grease-stained jeans and holding a massive wrench, grinning broadly while standing next to Grandpa’s old Buick. On the back of the frame, written in black ink, was a note in his clear, disciplined handwriting:
Maya’s First Engine Overhaul. July 12th. She didn't give up when the bolts rusted shut. She never gives up.
May you like
I sat down in his leather armchair, holding the photograph to my chest, and let out a long, quiet breath that I felt like I had been holding for five years.
I wasn't an unwanted charity case. I was his heir. And my fight was just beginning.
