PART 2
Gideon stared at me.
“What did you say?”
I stepped back toward the house.
“I said you should check whose name is on the deed.”
His expression hardened.
“You think some piece of paper is going to change anything?”
“No.”
I looked at the yellow folder in my hand.
“I think the person who signed it will.”
For several seconds, nobody moved.
Then Gideon snatched the folder from my hand.
He opened it.
The first page was a certified copy of the property deed.
His eyes moved across the page.
Then stopped.
The color drained from his face.
Constance stepped beside him.
“What is it?”
Gideon didn’t answer.
She grabbed the paper.
Her eyes widened.
“No…”
I heard one of the relatives whisper:
“What does it say?”
I answered for them.
“The property isn’t owned by Gideon Vanterpool.”
I pointed toward the house.
“It isn’t owned by the Vanterpool family either.”
I took a breath.
“It belongs to Everett Vanterpool’s wife.”
Everyone stared at me.
Me.
Constance laughed nervously.
“That is impossible.”
“It isn’t.”
“Everett never transferred this house to you.”
“No.”
I looked at Gideon.
“Because he didn’t need to.”
I pulled another document from the folder.
“He bought it before we were married.”
Gideon’s jaw tightened.
“But he registered it under a family holding company.”
“Yes.”
I smiled faintly.
“And that’s where your mistake begins.”
I handed the second document to him.
“Three years ago, Everett dissolved that company.”
Gideon looked down.
“He transferred the property into a private trust.”
Constance’s face had gone white.
“And who is the beneficiary?”
I didn’t answer.
Gideon already knew.
He whispered it.
“Maren.”
My children stared at me.
Isaac stepped closer.
“Mom?”
I turned toward him.
“It’s okay.”
But it wasn’t.
Because there was something else in that folder.
Something Everett had specifically told me never to reveal unless his parents tried to throw us out.
I opened the final envelope.
Inside was a handwritten letter.
My husband’s handwriting.
My heart broke all over again.
Maren,
If you’re reading this, then they finally did what I feared.
I swallowed.
My father will tell you the house belongs to him. He will lie.
My eyes filled with tears.
The house was never the important part.
I looked at Gideon.
He had stopped breathing.
I continued reading.
What matters is what my father has been hiding beneath it.
The rain suddenly sounded louder.
“What does that mean?” Constance whispered.
I looked up.
“I don’t know.”
Gideon stepped toward me.
“Give me that letter.”
“No.”
“Maren.”
“You threw my children into the rain.”
His face hardened.
“Give it to me.”
“No.”
He reached for it.
Isaac stepped between us.
“Don’t touch my mother.”
Gideon stopped.
For the first time, I saw something different in his eyes.
Not anger.
Fear.
I unfolded the final page.
There was only one sentence.
If Father ever claims this house, call Marguerite immediately and ask her about the basement.
I looked toward the house.
“The basement?”
Constance suddenly grabbed Gideon’s arm.
“Gideon…”
He pulled away.
“Everyone inside.”
Nobody moved.
“Now!”
The relatives rushed through the doors.
I followed.
Not because Gideon invited me.
Because I wanted answers.
Eight days after my husband’s funeral, I walked back into the house where I’d raised my children.
But this time, I wasn’t walking in as a grieving widow.
I was walking in as the legal owner.
Gideon led us toward the basement.
The door was behind a bookshelf.
I’d lived there for fourteen years.
I’d never seen it.
He entered a code.
The lock clicked.
I stared at him.
“How long has that been there?”
He didn’t answer.
The door opened.
Inside was a narrow concrete staircase.
We went down.
At the bottom was a room filled with filing cabinets.
Boxes.
Hard drives.
Bank statements.
Property documents.
And photographs.
Hundreds of them.
I picked up the first photograph.
It was Everett.
He looked about twenty-two.
Standing beside Gideon.
And beside them was a man I had never seen before.
“Who is that?”
Gideon went completely still.
Constance whispered:
“Don’t.”
I looked at her.
“Don’t what?”
She shook her head.
“Please.”
That was when I knew.
This man mattered.
I picked up another photograph.
Everett was older.
Maybe thirty.
The same man was beside him.
But this time, Everett was holding a newborn baby.
My breath caught.
The baby had the same distinctive birthmark as my youngest son.
I turned the photograph over.
There was a date.
Fourteen years ago.
The year Isaac was born.
My hands began shaking.
“Why was Everett holding this baby?”
Nobody answered.
Then I found a folder marked:
VANTERPOOL HEIRS — CONFIDENTIAL.
I opened it.
Inside were six birth certificates.
Six.
One for each of my children.
But there was something wrong.
Every certificate had the same father’s name.
Everett Vanterpool.
And every mother’s name was different.
My heart stopped.
“What is this?”
Gideon closed his eyes.
I looked at him.
“You knew?”
He said nothing.
“You knew.”
“Maren, listen to me.”
“No.”
I held up the papers.
“Why do my children’s birth certificates list different mothers?”
Constance began crying.
Not pretending.
Actually crying.
I looked between them.
“Where are their real mothers?”
Nobody answered.
Then a voice came from behind me.
“Dead.”
I turned.
An elderly man stood at the basement doorway.
I recognized him immediately.
He was the same man from the photographs.
Gideon looked horrified.
“You weren’t supposed to come here.”
The old man ignored him.
He looked at me.
“Your husband knew the truth.”
I could barely speak.
“What truth?”
He walked down the stairs.
“Everett didn’t have six children by accident.”
I stared at him.
“He spent fourteen years protecting them.”
“Protecting them from what?”
He looked directly at Gideon.
“From their grandfather.”
The room went silent.
Gideon’s face twisted with rage.
“Get out.”
The old man smiled sadly.
“It’s too late.”
He turned to me.
“Everett knew his father was selling pieces of the family fortune to pay off debts.”
I frowned.
“What does that have to do with my children?”
“Everything.”
He pointed toward the files.
“Those six children were the legal heirs to assets your father-in-law couldn’t touch.”
I looked at Gideon.
He had lied.
For fourteen years.
About my children.
About the house.
About the family.
About everything.
Then the old man said something that made my blood run cold.
“Everett wasn’t sick when he died.”
I froze.
“What?”
Gideon suddenly shouted:
“Enough!”
The old man didn’t stop.
“Your husband was murdered.”
My knees nearly gave out.
“No.”
The old man looked at me.
“Everett discovered what his father had been doing.”
I whispered:
“Who killed him?”
The old man stared at Gideon.
And Gideon didn’t deny it.
Instead, he slowly reached into his coat.
Everyone screamed.
I grabbed my children.
But Gideon didn’t pull out a weapon.
He pulled out a phone.
He pressed one button.
A recording began playing.
It was Everett’s voice.
My husband’s voice.
Recorded only two days before he died.
“If you’re hearing this, Dad has already made his move.”
I covered my mouth.
Everett continued.
“Maren, there is one thing I never told you.”
The recording crackled.
Then came the words that shattered everything I thought I knew about my marriage.
“None of our six children are biologically mine.”
I stared at the phone.
Isaac looked at me.
The room spun.
And then Everett’s voice returned.
“But they are all legally mine.”
A pause.
Then:
“Because their real fathers are the six men my father had killed.”
The recording stopped.
Nobody breathed.
Then the old man whispered:
“Now you understand why Everett had to die.”
I looked at my six children.
And suddenly the rain outside didn’t frighten me anymore.
Because whoever had murdered my husband had just given me six reasons to fight back.
And I knew exactly where to start.
With the name of the first dead father.