Chapter 6 - THE RETURN TO SAVANNAH
The warm, humid breeze of coastal Georgia carried the scent of magnolia blossoms and salt water as our private jet touched down on the tarmac at Savannah/Hilton Head International Airport three days later.
Rose sat in a comfortable reclining seat in the cabin, looking out the window at the moss-draped live oak trees framing the runway. Her health was already improving under the care of my private medical staff, who traveled with us. The color was slowly returning to her cheeks, and the fog in her eyes—caused by years of deliberate poisoning—was finally beginning to lift.
"It smells the same," Rose whispered, her voice stronger than it had been in Manhattan. "The air here... it always felt heavy before rain."
I sat across from her, holding a folder containing historical records of the old Sterling estate in Savannah. "Do you remember where you lived, Mom? Before they took me?"
Rose looked down at her hands, her brow furrowing as memories returned in waves. "A small cottage near the riverfront... 412 River Street. It was an old wooden house with a blue porch. Your father bought it for us secretly so his family wouldn't find out."
Brooklyn leaned in, looking at a map on her tablet. "Dad, 412 River Street is part of the historic preservation district now. According to public records, that property was bought by a private trust twenty-five years ago and locked up. Nobody has lived there since 1995."
I frowned. Why would someone buy a small, run-down cottage and leave it vacant for a quarter of a century?
"Marcus," I called out to my security chief, who was seated near the front of the aircraft. "Have our local team meet us at River Street. I want the property swept before we step foot on it."
"Understood, sir," Marcus replied.
An hour later, a convoy of three dark sedans pulled up along the cobbled streets of historic Savannah. The sun was beginning to set, casting golden light through the hanging Spanish moss that draped from the giant oak trees.
We arrived at 412 River Street.
Standing among modern renovated brick buildings was a small, two-story wooden cottage, remarkably preserved behind a tall iron gate. The porch was painted a faded, weathered blue—just as Rose had described.
Rose stepped out of the vehicle with the assistance of Brooklyn and a cane. She stopped at the iron gate, her breath catching in her throat. Tears welled up in her eyes as she stared at the steps where she used to sit with me when I was a toddler.
"This is it..." she choked out. "This is where we were happy, Christopher."
Marcus unlocked the heavy iron padlock on the gate, which hissed with rust as it opened. We walked up the stone pathway toward the front porch. The front door was solid oak, fitted with an surprisingly modern electronic keypad lock—a stark contrast to the historic aesthetic of the house.
"Why does an abandoned 19th-century cottage have an encrypted digital lock?" Brooklyn asked, eyeing the keypad.
"Because someone was hiding something here," I said.
I motioned to my security technician, who attached a portable decryption tablet to the keypad interface. Within ninety seconds, the internal tumblers clicked open, and the heavy oak door swung inward with a creak.
Inside, the house was frozen in time. The furniture—a vintage sofa, an old wooden dining table, a rocking chair by the window—was covered in clear plastic dust sheets. But despite the dust, everything was immaculately organized.
Rose walked slowly into the living room, touching the plastic cover over the rocking chair. "I sat in this chair... singing you to sleep while the rain hit the roof."
As I walked down the narrow hallway toward the back room, I noticed something strange about the wall paneling near the fireplace. The wooden moldings didn't line up correctly with the floorboards.
I reached out and pressed my fingers against the oak panel. A soft metallic click echoed through the quiet room.
A panel on the wall slid open, revealing a hidden stairwell leading down into a reinforced basement beneath the historic house.
May you like
"Dad," Brooklyn whispered, coming up behind me with Marcus. "What is down there?"
I drew a flashlight from Marcus's belt and clicked it on, casting a beam of bright white light down the dark wooden steps. "Only one way to find out."
