Chapter 4 - The House of Lies
"In the back! Go!" Samuel barked, shoving the leather journal into June’s hands and pushing Mara toward a narrow door at the rear of the workshop.
They burst into the small back courtyard just as heavy footsteps thundered into the antique shop behind them. The courtyard was surrounded by high brick walls, but an iron alley gate led out toward the river docks. Samuel pulled a heavy key from his apron pocket, unlocked the gate, and shoved Mara and June through into the foggy night air.
"Samuel, come with us!" Mara begged, holding the gate open.
"I’ll hold them off! I’ll tell them you ran toward the bridge!" Samuel insisted, his eyes fierce. "Take the river path to the old train depot! I have a car parked in the storage shed there! Take the key!"
He jammed a ring of car keys into Mara’s hand and slammed the heavy iron gate shut, sliding the latch into place from the inside. A second later, the sound of shouting and breaking furniture echoed from inside the shop as Grant’s men confronted the old craftsman.
"Mom!" June cried, her fingers tightening around her father's leather journal.
"Run, June!" Mara grabbed her hand, and together they sprinted down the narrow riverbank path, hidden by the thick, damp fog rolling off the dark water.
The night air was freezing, biting through June’s thin sweater, but she kept her legs moving, driven by pure terror and love for her mother. The sound of shouting faded behind them, replaced by the deep, rhythmic churning of the river and the distant, low whistle of a cargo ship.
They reached the abandoned train depot twenty minutes later—a massive, rusting structure of iron beams and shattered glass skylights that had sat empty for decades. Hidden inside a small corrugated metal storage shed at the edge of the property was Samuel’s old green station wagon.
Mara unlocked the car door with trembling hands, shoved June into the passenger seat, and climbed into the driver’s side. She turned the key. The engine sputtered, groaned, and then roared to life.
Mara jammed the car into gear and sped out of the depot yard, turning onto the quiet state highway that led away from the city.
For an hour, neither of them spoke. The heater blew faint, lukewarm air into the cab, and the yellow glow of streetlights flickered rhythmically across the dash.
June sat with her knees pulled up to her chest, the leather journal resting in her lap, the gold ring hanging heavily around her neck.
"Where are we going?" June whispered finally.
Mara kept her hands glued to the steering wheel, her eyes fixed on the dark road ahead. "We're going to the one place they won't expect us to go."
June looked at her mother. "Where?"
"The Ashford Estate," Mara said, her voice dropping into a hard, resolute edge June had never heard before.
June gasped. "Mom! That's where Grant lives! That's where Arthur is!"
"Arthur is the key, June," Mara said, turning her head briefly to look at her daughter. "Grant is the one who wants us gone. Grant is the one who chased your father away fifteen years ago. But Arthur... Arthur is an old man. When Arthur looked at you tonight, I didn't see hatred in his eyes. I saw grief. He loved Julian, June. He believed his eldest son was dead. If we can get inside that house and show Arthur the truth—show him Julian's journal—Arthur will stop Grant."
"What if he doesn't?" June asked quietly. "What if Arthur is just like Grant?"
Mara reached over, taking June’s small hand and squeezing it tightly. "Then we fight with everything we have. For your father."
It was nearly three in the morning when the green station wagon pulled up to the perimeter wall of the Ashford estate. The grand iron gates were locked, but Mara drove around the perimeter to a small service road used by landscapers.
Mara turned off the car headlights, coasting in the darkness until they reached a low wooden gate hidden behind thick overgrown ivy.
"Your father told me about this gate," Mara whispered, pulling a small flashlight from the glove compartment. "When he was a boy, he used to sneak out through here to go riding."
They slipped out of the car, quiet as shadows. Mara pushed through the ivy, finding the rusted latch of the wooden gate. It opened with a faint groan, giving them access to the sprawling, manicured gardens behind the grand manor.
The house loomed against the night sky like a dark mountain, its stone facade illuminated only by the pale light of the moon. Most of the windows were dark, but a warm, flickering light glowed from a large set of French doors on the ground floor—Arthur Ashford’s private library.
Mara led June through the rose garden, crouching low behind the stone hedges. They reached the stone patio outside the library.
Through the clear glass of the French doors, June could see Arthur Ashford sitting alone in a massive wingback leather chair before a roaring marble fireplace. He held a crystal glass in one hand and a faded photograph in the other. He looked frail, exhausted, stripped of the imposing armor he had worn at the gala.
Mara took a deep breath, looked at June, and nodded.
Mara stepped up to the glass doors and knocked firmly three times.
Inside the room, Arthur startled. He set his glass down, stood up slowly, and pulled a small ivory-handled revolver from his desk drawer. He walked cautiously toward the glass doors, raising the lamp.
When the light caught Mara’s face, and then dropped down to the little girl standing beside her holding a leather journal, Arthur stopped.
Slowly, his trembling hands unlocked the latch and pulled the heavy glass door open.
"Ms. Vance?" Arthur rasped, his voice hollow with shock. "How... how did you get in here? My men are searching the city for you—"
"Your son Grant is searching for us," Mara corrected sharply, stepping inside the warm, book-lined room and pulling June with her. "Because Grant is a coward who has been lying to you for fifteen years."
Arthur’s brow furrowed in anger, he raised the revolver slightly. "Mind your tongue in my house, woman! You carry a stolen ring—"
"It wasn't stolen!" June shouted, stepping right in front of her mother. She pulled the chain over her head and held the dented gold ring up into the firelight. "My father gave this to my mom! He wore it every day until he died four years ago!"
Arthur stared at the child. His hands began to shake so violently the revolver slipped from his fingers, thudding onto the thick Persian rug.
"What did you say?" Arthur whispered, his face turning paper-white. "Four... four years ago?"
"Julian didn't die in France fifteen years ago, Arthur," Mara said, tears finally filling her eyes. "He survived the crash. The crash that Grant arranged."
"No..." Arthur shook his head, taking a staggering step back. "No, Grant told me... the French police confirmed..."
"Grant paid them off," Mara said fiercely. She took the leather journal from June and shoved it into the old man's trembling hands. "Read it! Read your eldest son’s handwriting! Read the banking records, the dates, the names! Julian gave up his fortune and lived as David Vance, a simple carpenter, just to stay alive and protect his daughter!"
Arthur dropped to his knees on the rug, his trembling fingers frantically opening the worn leather journal. He turned page after page, his eyes scanning the familiar, elegant script of his firstborn son.
Property transfer records... forged signatures... Grant Ashford...
Tears spilled over Arthur's aged cheeks, dripping onto the yellowed pages of the journal. "Julian... my boy... my poor boy..."
"He loved you, Arthur," Mara whispered softly. "Even after everything, he kept your mother's ring. But Grant found out we existed tonight. He sent armed men to our apartment. He smashed Samuel Holloway's shop. He wants to kill June so she can never claim what belongs to Julian."
"Is that true, Father?"
May you like
A cold, sharp voice echoed from the heavy mahogany doors at the back of the library.
Grant Ashford stood in the doorway. In his right hand, he held a sleek black pistol. Behind him stood Eleanor, her face pale, her hands clutched nervously over her emerald gown.
