Chapter 26: The Dates

The red paint dripped like fresh blood, pooling on the floor beneath the easel. *The Beneficiary.*

I stared at my own defaced image, my breath hitching in my throat. The eyes were slashed out with violent, stabbing strokes. The mouth was obliterated. It wasn't just a painting; it was a voodoo doll. A declaration of intent.

Catherine hated me. Not because I was her brother's wife, but because I was the obstacle. The "beneficiary" standing between her and the Vane fortune.

I moved closer, my flashlight beam trembling. I needed to see the signature. I needed to know if this was recent work, if this rage was current.

The corner was thick with paint, layered over and over as if she had tried to sign it and failed, or changed her mind.

*C. Blackwood.*

The name was scratched into the wet pigment with the handle of a brush. Not Vane. Blackwood.

She wasn't identifying as a Vane. She was reclaiming her maiden name. The name of the company Eleanor had swallowed whole.

I heard a sound from the hallway downstairs. A door closing. Voices.

"Check the guest house first," Eleanor’s voice drifted up, muffled by the floorboards but unmistakable. "If she's not there, check the garage."

They were looking for me.

I scanned the room for another exit. There was none. The skylight was too high, the window painted shut. My only way out was the way I came in—the door Richard had left unlocked.

I grabbed my phone to take a picture of the painting, but my hands were shaking so badly I dropped it. It clattered onto the wooden floor, the sound echoing like a gunshot.

"Did you hear that?" Richard’s voice. Closer.

"Upstairs," Eleanor commanded.

I snatched my phone and the diary. I couldn't go back down the service stairs; they would cut me off.

I looked at the vent again. The one I had escaped through last night.

I dragged the heavy desk over, my muscles screaming. I climbed up, my fingernails scrabbling for purchase on the grate. It was still loose.

"Elena!" Richard shouted from the bottom of the stairs. "We know you're up there!"

I pulled myself into the narrow metal tunnel just as the attic door burst open.

I crawled, the metal biting into my knees, the dust choking me. Below, I heard them enter the studio.

"She was here," Eleanor said, her voice cold. "Look at the painting."

A pause. Then, a sound I would never forget.

Richard weeping.

"My God," he choked out. "She knows. She knows everything."

"Pull yourself together," Eleanor snapped. "We have to find her before she calls the lawyers. Or the police."

"What are we going to do?"

"We activate the contingency," Eleanor said. "Call the bank. Tell them Elena has embezzled the trust funds. Tell them she's fled."

I froze in the vent. Embezzled.

They weren't just going to annul the marriage. They were going to frame me for the theft I had just uncovered.

I crawled faster, panic fueling my limbs. I reached the junction where the vent split. Left went to the roof. Right went to the main office.

I needed a computer. I needed to get the files out of the secure server before they locked me out completely.

I turned right.

The shaft narrowed. I squeezed through, my dress catching on a screw. I ripped it free, leaving a scrap of midnight blue velvet behind.

I reached the grate above the office. I peered down. The room was empty, the desk lamp still on from my earlier session.

I kicked the grate. It clattered to the floor. I dropped down, landing in a crouch.

I ran to the computer. The screen was dark. I wiggled the mouse.

*Enter Password.*

I typed in my credentials. *Access Denied. Account Suspended.*

They had already cut me off.

"Damn it," I whispered.

I tried the override code again. *VaneLegacy2000.*

*Access Denied.*

I looked around the room, desperate. There had to be another way in. A physical backup. A hard copy.

My eyes landed on the wall safe behind the painting of the original Vane patriarch.

Richard never changed the safe combination. It was his birthday.

I pulled the painting aside. I spun the dial.

*Right to 10. Left to 14. Right to 80.*

Click.

The heavy steel door swung open.

It wasn't empty.

Inside, stacked in neat piles, were passports. Dozens of them.

I picked one up. It was Richard’s face. But the name was *Robert Blackwood.*

I picked up another. Catherine’s face. *Catherine Blackwood.*

And a third.

My face.

*Elena Blackwood.*

The date of issue was 2002.

I wasn't just a scapegoat. I was a ghost they had created twenty years ago.