Chapter 4 - The Missing Ledger
Security cameras covered every exterior entrance to Bennett House.
None covered the family wing.
Isaiah had hated the idea of being watched inside his own home.
That decision now left Preston with six hours of useless footage showing that nobody had entered or left.
Which meant the person who searched Isaiah’s office had already been inside.
Grant wanted everyone released.
Preston refused.
“You have no authority to hold anyone,” Grant said.
“That is correct.”
“So we’re leaving.”
“You can.”
Grant reached for his coat.
Preston continued.
“And I will immediately notify the county sheriff that potential evidence in a suspected probate fraud was disturbed while you were present.”
Grant stopped.
Monica watched him.
Malcolm stood near the doorway, arms folded.
“Stay, Grant.”
Grant looked at him.
“You don’t give me orders.”
“No,” Malcolm replied. “But if you leave now, you’ll spend the rest of the week explaining why.”
Grant slowly removed his hand from his coat.
The sheriff’s office eventually arrived at Preston’s request.
Detective Lena Ortiz, forty-six, took command of the room with the patience of someone accustomed to wealthy people believing money changed procedure.
“Until we establish whether a crime occurred here tonight,” she said, “nobody touches anything.”
The search of Isaiah’s office revealed only one obvious absence.
A ledger.
Monica recognized the empty shelf immediately.
“My father kept a red accounting book there.”
Malcolm nodded.
“He called it his shadow ledger.”
Ortiz looked at him.
“What’s that?”
“Isaiah didn’t trust digital accounting completely. When something bothered him, he wrote the transaction number by hand.”
Grant rolled his eyes.
“He was seventy-eight.”
“Seventy-nine next month,” Danielle corrected.
Grant glanced at her.
Malcolm continued.
“If he suspected financial misconduct, that book would contain the entries.”
Preston looked toward Monica.
Her face tightened.
The $1.8 million transfer might be inside.
But whoever searched the office had not merely been looking for the real will.
They might have been looking for financial evidence too.
Detective Ortiz asked where everyone had been between six and seven.
Vivian claimed she had been upstairs on a call.
Danielle had been with Ella.
Malcolm had been in the dining room.
Monica and Preston had been in the conservatory.
Grant said he had been outside speaking to an investor.
“Outside where?” Ortiz asked.
“The rear terrace.”
“No exterior camera shows you there.”
“The terrace camera hasn’t worked in months.”
Ortiz wrote something down.
Grant smiled thinly.
“You seem disappointed.”
“I don’t experience disappointment during interviews, Mr. Graves.”
Ella appeared in the doorway wearing pajamas.
Danielle hurried toward her.
“I thought you were asleep.”
“I heard everyone.”
Ortiz crouched.
“Hi. I’m Lena.”
Ella studied her badge.
“Are you police?”
“A detective.”
Ella looked toward Grant.
Then Monica.
Then Preston.
“Grandpa said the red book was dangerous.”
Every adult stopped moving.
Ortiz’s expression changed.
“When did he say that?”
“The night before he died.”
Monica closed her eyes.
Preston asked carefully, “What exactly did he say?”
Ella thought.
“He said, ‘If the red book disappears, then somebody knows I know.’”
Grant laughed.
“This is absurd. You’re building a criminal investigation from the memories of an eight-year-old.”
Ortiz turned to him.
“I’m building nothing. I’m listening.”
Grant went silent.
Ella looked at Preston.
“He also gave me a number.”
Preston’s heart accelerated.
“What number?”
“Twenty-seven.”
“Twenty-seven what?”
“I don’t know.”
Grant suddenly looked away.
Preston noticed.
So did Ortiz.
“What does twenty-seven mean to you, Mr. Graves?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why did you react?”
“I didn’t.”
Monica stared at her husband.
“Yes, you did.”
Grant’s jaw tightened.
Malcolm took out his phone.
“There are twenty-seven active development subsidiaries under Bennett Meridian.”
Preston shook his head.
“Too broad.”
Danielle whispered, “Evelyn’s studio.”
Everyone turned.
“What?” Preston asked.
“The east wing has numbered architectural storage drawers. Evelyn designed them herself.”
“How many?”
Danielle looked toward the ceiling.
“Thirty.”
Preston and Ortiz exchanged a glance.
Ten minutes later they stood inside Evelyn Bennett’s old architectural studio.
Dust covered the drafting tables.
Along one wall were thirty narrow wooden drawers numbered in brass.
Twenty-seven was locked.
Ortiz photographed it before forcing it open.
Inside lay no will.
No ledger.
Only a yellow envelope.
May you like
On the front, in Isaiah Bennett’s handwriting, were four words:
FOR ELLA. NOT YET.
