Chapter 5 - The Shadow in the Archives
Roman was at my side before I could even repeat Marcus’s words into the receiver. He pressed the speakerphone button with a decisive click.
"Talk, Marcus," Roman commanded.
"It's not about the corporate accounts, Roman," Marcus said, his voice tense and low. "It's about the estate's historical land registry. When the federal investigators were cross-referencing Vivian’s offshore shell companies this morning, they flagged an anomaly in the original deed for this Lake Forest property dating back to 1984."
Roman frowned, crossing his arms over his chest. "What kind of anomaly? The estate has been in my family for three generations."
"Not all of it," Marcus corrected. "Your father purchased the main manor and the surrounding ten acres in ninety-two. But the eastern service wing—the subterranean archives and the old storm shelter where Vivian tried to hide her documents—was built on a separate parcel of land originally owned by a trust belonging to Arthur Vance Sr."
"My grandfather," Roman said slowly.
"Right. And according to the historical registry documents that just surfaced from the county clerk’s secret archives, that specific parcel wasn't legally purchased—it was transferred under a court-ordered trusteeship following the disappearance of your uncle, Julian Valente."
The name hung in the air like a ghost.
I watched Roman’s face. The color drained from his skin, his jaw tightening so hard a muscle twitched violently in his cheek. Julian Valente. The black sheep of the family who had supposedly vanished to South America in the late eighties after embezzling a fortune from the family’s shipping empire.
At least, that was the story Roman had been told since he was a child.
"Julian died in a plane crash off the coast of Brazil," Roman said, though his voice lacked its usual absolute conviction. "My father showed me the death certificate."
"The death certificate was filed by your father's personal attorney thirty-five years ago," Marcus said grimly. "And the signature on the court-ordered trusteeship transfer isn't your grandfather's. It's forged. Furthermore, the electronic audit trail shows that someone inside the estate accessed the physical archive files in the basement storm shelter three days ago—right before Vivian tried to blow the subterranean corridor."
A cold sweat broke out across the back of my neck. I remembered the heavy steel vault doors, the hidden cameras, the secret ledger Vivian had been clutching before the explosion.
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"She wasn't just hiding corporate embezzlement down there," I whispered, looking up at Roman. "She was looking for something else."
"She was looking for proof that my uncle didn't disappear," Roman said, his voice dropping into a dark, dangerous register. He slammed his hand down flat on my desk, making the coffee mug rattle. "Marcus, get down here with the federal registry files. Bring a forensic locksmith. We're opening the basement vault—the real one behind the storm shelter."
