Following the sudden death of my husband, I couldn’t muster the courage to step into his garage. He had always firmly prohibited me from entering that space. Yet, when the time came to put it up for sale, I unlocked the door and was struck with shock at what lay inside…

Then at least you’ll know. The not knowing, it’s what’s killing you. She was right.

So we made a plan. First, the bank. Then, if things still didn’t make sense, we’d find someone who could tell us the truth.

Thomas had to have had a fallback. A contact. Someone who knew what the hell he was involved in.

That’s when Logan said, there’s a name my mother mentioned once. Edward Holloway. Dad’s old college friend.

She said he was the only one who ever told Thomas the truth, even when he didn’t want to hear it. Do you know where he is? I think so, Logan said. Mom had his address in Savannah.

She kept it in a box of emergency contacts. So we drove. A two-hour trip in silence.

Rain trailing down the windshield like streaks of memory. Savannah greeted us with oak trees and damp air and the kind of stillness that only Old Town seemed to carry. Edward lived in a tall brick house covered in ivy, like something pulled from a forgotten novel.

He opened the door slowly. You’re Vivian, he said without hesitation, and you must be Logan. You knew we’d come? I asked.

He nodded. Thomas said, if it all comes apart, they’ll find you. He stepped back.

Come in. Inside his house smelled like paper and pipe smoke. Bookshelves lined the walls.

A piano sat in the corner, untouched but polished. He motioned for us to sit, then disappeared into another room and returned with a sealed envelope. He left this with me, Edward said.

Said it was only to be opened if both of you showed up together. I looked at Logan. He nodded.

I opened the envelope. Inside was a short handwritten letter and a second will. This one was different.

It named the child Rachel was carrying. It assigned 25 percent of Thomas’s private savings, offshore unspecified, to the child once they turned 21. I felt the blood drain from my face.

He planned for everything, even this, and with that I realized we were standing at the center of a storm Thomas had built brick by brick, and now it was on us to survive it. I stared at the will again, at the name, unborn child of Rachel Carter, 25 percent, to be held in trust until age 21. It wasn’t the money that stunned me.

It was the precision. Thomas had planned this, all of it. Even after death, he was still three steps ahead.

Why would he name the baby but not Rachel? I asked Edward. Because he trusted the child, Edward said gently, not the mother. Logan shifted in his seat.

This changes everything. It means Rachel can’t touch that money, not legally. I looked down at the second will again.

And if she tries? Edward nodded toward the flash drive. Then you use that. From what Thomas told me, it contains detailed records of every transfer, every partner, every crime they committed to build this thing.

If they push you, you push back. Claire exhaled beside me. You have leverage.

For the first time since Thomas died, I didn’t feel small. I didn’t feel like the woman who’d been lied to, cheated on, and left with broken pieces. I felt like the only one left holding the blueprint.

And that was power. Logan leaned forward. Vivian, I think it’s time we stop reacting.

We need to make a move. Before Gordon or Crane does. I nodded slowly.

We go to the bank. We drove back into Charleston before noon. The Federal Trust building set nestled between a law office and a historic inn.

Discreet and unassuming. The kind of place you’d walk by a hundred times without noticing. Until it mattered.

Claire stayed in the car. Just text if it gets weird, she said. And if they don’t let you in, cry.

Nobody says no to a woman crying at a bank. Logan smiled at that. I didn’t.

Inside, the vault manager looked at the silver key, checked my ID, and raised an eyebrow. It’s been years since anyone accessed this box, he said. It was registered under a corporate shield, Mercury South Holdings.

He led us into the basement, past layers of security doors and concrete. The air grew colder, the silence thicker. And then we were alone with the safe deposit box.

He handed me gloves. Standard procedure, he said. We’ll give you privacy.

The door closed behind us. My fingers hovered over the lock. Ready.

Logan asked. No. But I did it anyway.

The key turned smoothly. The box slid out. Inside wasn’t cash.

No passports. No burner phones. No stacks of untraceable bills.

Just one manila folder and a photograph. The photo was of Thomas, Logan, and Gordon Blake, standing in front of a black SUV, arms crossed, laughing. And behind them, Victor Crane.

I stared at the photo for a long time. They weren’t just business associates, I said. They were a team.

Logan opened the folder. Dozens of signed agreements, shell company registrations, payoffs. And one document marked Crane Blackmail Insurance in bold red ink..