Chapter 96: The Tape Plays

Ben didn't argue. He just nodded, his face grim in the pale workshop light. He knew what "the beginning" meant.

We left the VCR whirring in the corner and took the stolen sedan, driving fast through the thinning traffic. The sun was fully up now, but the city felt gray, washed out, as if the color had been drained by the revelations of the last twenty-four hours.

We reached the Hoarding House in forty minutes.

It was still standing, but barely. The police tape was torn, flapping in the wind. The front door had been boarded up, but the wood was rotting. Ben pried it open with a tire iron.

Inside, the smell was overwhelming—mildew, decay, and the faint, lingering scent of lavender. Clara’s scent.

"The lockbox," I said, stepping over a pile of newspapers. "It was in the hallway. Behind the wheelchair ramp."

We went to the spot. The wall was still torn open, the studs exposed like ribs. But the space between them was empty.

"It's gone," Ben said.

"No," I said. "I found the box. I took the birth certificate. But I left the box."

I knelt down, shining my flashlight into the cavity.

There was nothing there. Just dust and mouse droppings.

"Someone took it," I said.

"Edith?" Ben asked.

"No," I said. "Edith thought she destroyed everything. That's why she was so confident."

I stood up, scanning the room. The hoard was a chaotic mess, but it had a logic to it. Clara’s logic.

"Who else knew?" I asked. "Who else knew about the foundation?"

Ben looked at me.

"Mark," he said.

I froze.

Mark. The traitor. The survivor.

"He was here," I said. "Before the fire. Before the hospital. He came here to snoop."

"And he found it," Ben said. "He found the box. And he kept it."

"Why?"

"Insurance," Ben said. "Just like Vance. Just like everyone in this family."

I pulled out my phone. I dialed Mark's number.

It went straight to voicemail.

"He's in the hospital," I said. "In the burn unit. Or he was."

"If he has the affidavit," Ben said, "he's not in the hospital. He's making a deal."

"With who?"

"With the only person left who has money," Ben said. "The Chairwoman."

I felt a surge of panic. If Mark gave the affidavit to the Chairwoman, the proof would disappear forever. And with it, any hope of saving Leo. Any hope of justice.

"We have to find him," I said.

"How?" Ben asked. "He could be anywhere."

"No," I said. "He's a creature of habit. And he's hurt. He'll go to ground. Somewhere he feels safe."

I thought about Mark. About his gambling debts. His fear of Edith. His desperate need for approval.

"The boat," I said.

"What boat?"

"The yacht," I said. "The *Sterling Pride*. Edith kept it docked at the marina. Mark used to sleep there when he was fighting with her."

"It's probably seized," Ben said.

"Maybe," I said. "But Mark has a key. And he knows the codes."

We ran back to the car. The drive to the marina was agonizingly slow. Every red light felt like a personal insult.

When we arrived, the docks were quiet. The *Sterling Pride* was there, a sleek white ghost bobbing in the water.

But it wasn't empty.

The lights were on in the cabin.

"Stay here," I told Ben. "Keep the engine running."

"Sarah..."

"If things go wrong," I said, "you need to be ready to run."

I walked down the pier, my footsteps echoing on the wood. I reached the gangplank.

"Mark?" I called out.

No answer.

I boarded the boat. The door to the cabin was unlocked.

I stepped inside.

Mark was sitting at the table, a bottle of scotch in front of him. He was wearing a hospital gown over a pair of jeans, his chest wrapped in bandages.

And on the table, in front of him, was the metal box.

Open.

"Hello, sis," he said, taking a drink.

"Mark," I said, stepping closer. "Give me the paper."

He laughed. It was a wet, hacking sound.

"You always were bossy," he said. "Just like her."

"I'm nothing like her," I said. "And neither are you. You can end this, Mark. Right now."

"It's already ended," he said. "Edith is dead. Clara is dead. The family is dead."

He picked up the paper. It was yellowed, brittle with age.

*Affidavit of Custody Transfer.*

"This is worth ten million dollars," he said. "The Chairwoman offered me ten million."

"She'll kill you," I said. "Once she has it, you're a liability."

"Maybe," Mark said. "But at least I'll die rich."

He held the paper over the flame of a lighter.

"Don't!" I screamed.

I lunged.

Mark didn't move. He didn't flinch.

He just watched me.

"Do you know why I hated you?" he asked. "Because you were the favorite. Even when you were the poor relation. Clara loved you. Edith obsessed over you. And I was just... the spare."

He lowered the paper toward the flame.

"Mark, please," I begged. "For Leo."

"Leo is better off without us," Mark said. "We're poison, Sarah. All of us."

The edge of the paper turned brown. Smoke curled up.

"Mark!"

But then, a noise.

A siren.

Mark looked out the window.

A police boat was pulling up to the pier. Lights flashing.

"You called them," he said, his eyes wide with betrayal.

"I didn't!" I said. "I swear!"

"Liar!"

He dropped the lighter. The paper caught fire.

"No!"

I grabbed the burning page. The flames bit into my fingers, but I didn't let go. I slapped it against the table, smothering the fire with my hand.

Mark stood up. He grabbed the bottle of scotch.

"You're not taking it!" he yelled.

He swung the bottle at me.

I ducked. The bottle smashed against the wall.

"Police! Hands up!"

Two officers burst into the cabin, guns drawn.

Mark looked at them. He looked at me.

He looked at the charred, half-burned affidavit on the table.

He smiled.

"It's over," he said.

And then he raised his hands.

But he didn't stop raising them. He reached for something on the shelf above him.

A flare gun.

"Drop it!" the officer yelled.

Mark pointed the flare gun at the floor.

At the spilled alcohol.

"Burn," he whispered.

He pulled the trigger.

The cabin exploded in light.