Chapter 7 - The House I Thought My Mother Sold Was Still Mine—And Hidden Beneath Its Floorboards Was the Fortune Everyone Had Betrayed Each Other to FindThe house stood at the edge of Cedar Glen.
It looked abandoned.
The windows were dusty.
The garden was overgrown.
But the key opened the front door.
I stepped inside.
Memories hit me immediately.
My mother's kitchen.
The old wooden stairs.
The smell of cedar.
I hadn't been here since I was twenty.
Franklin followed.
“You remember?”
“Yes.”
“Your mother hid something here.”
We searched for hours.
Nothing.
Then I noticed the floorboard beneath the old fireplace.
It sounded hollow.
Franklin smiled.
“Your mother always loved that fireplace.”
We removed the board.
Beneath it was a metal box.
Inside were documents.
Bank records.
Trust agreements.
Photographs.
And a letter.
The final letter from my mother.
It revealed the truth.
The $18 million had been placed into a protected trust.
The beneficiary wasn't Michael.
Wasn't Franklin.
Wasn't David.
It was me.
I stared at the document.
“Me?”
Franklin nodded.
“Your mother wanted to make sure the money never returned to the Hale family.”
“But why?”
“Because she knew what they were capable of.”
The trust had one condition.
I had to be twenty-five years old before I could access it.
I was now thirty-four.
The money was legally mine.
But there was more.
My mother had left instructions.
The money wasn't meant to make me rich.
It was meant to restore what had been stolen from people harmed by the Hale family.
I looked at Franklin.
“She knew.”
“Yes.”
“She knew this would happen.”
“Yes.”
Then we heard a car outside.
Franklin's face changed.
“Someone found us.”
We turned off the lights.
A vehicle stopped outside.
Two men entered the house.
We hid upstairs.
Then I heard one man say:
“Find the documents.”
I recognized the voice.
Michael Hale.
Franklin's son.
He had not come to kill us.
He had come for the money.
But when he found the box empty, he screamed.
“Where is it?”
Franklin stepped out.
“Looking for this?”
Michael froze.
Father and son stared at each other.
Twenty-five years of hatred stood between them.
Michael's voice shook.
“You.”
Franklin nodded.
“You're alive.”
“So are you.”
Michael looked at me.
“Who is she?”
Franklin answered:
“My family.”
Michael laughed bitterly.
“You always said family was blood.”
Franklin looked at me.
“No.”
May you like
He smiled.
“I learned better.”
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