Cause of death: injuries sustained during violent assault.
The room seemed to tilt.
“Someone killed him,” Agent Chen said, her voice low and precise. “This wasn’t illness. This was murder.”
Annie pressed her hand to the edge of the table as nausea rose. Richard Mitchell hadn’t just murdered Eleanor. He had eliminated the heir who could have stripped him of everything.
“But the estate,” Annie said slowly. “If her son died, the inheritance should have passed to her daughters.”
Chen was already photographing the documents. “Mary and Joy.”
Annie’s breath came shallow. “Joy was my grandmother.”
Which meant Uncle Eric.
At the very bottom of the box lay a final page, preserved as carefully as the rest. Eleanor’s handwriting flowed across it in controlled, elegant lines. A will.
In it, Eleanor left all claims to her daughters and their descendants. She named Richard Mitchell’s inheritancefraudulent. She recorded his crimes. She placed her faith not in law, but in time.
Annie stared at the paper, understanding settling like weight into her bones.
Uncle Eric had not just been attacked for answers.
He had been targeted because he stood at the end of a bloodline Richard Mitchell had tried to erase.
And Eleanor had ensured that even death would not finish the work he began.
***
Jack paced the length of the safe house living room despite the steady burn in his shoulder, his frustration tightening with every turn. Annie and Agent Chen had been at the bank for over two hours, and the absence of updates pressed against him harder than the pain ever could.
He understood the operational reasons for keeping him back, understood the logic behind command centers and controlled distances, but logic didn’t quiet the instinct that told him he was in the wrong place. Annie was facing the heart of this case, and he was sitting in a borrowed house with federal equipment humming where a dining table should have been.
“Any word?” he asked, stopping near the bank of radios Agent Martinez monitored.
“They’re still inside the vault level,” Martinez replied, eyes flicking between screens and instruments. “So far, everything is proceeding according to plan. Detective, you really should sit down. That shoulder isn’t doing you any favors.”
Jack gave a short shake of his head and resumed pacing. He could still smell the mountain rain in his clothes, still hear Annie’s breathing in his ear from that final walk to the highway.Sitting still felt like surrender, and he had done enough of that four years ago.
His phone vibrated.
He reached for it instantly, expecting Agent Chen’s name. Instead, an unfamiliar number glowed on the screen, followed by words that iced his spine.
Your girlfriend is at First National Bank. Interesting choice. Did you know my great-grandfather helped found that board? History has long roots in Fairview. So do loyalties.
Jack’s hand tightened around the phone.
“Martinez,” he said sharply. “Get Chen on the line. Now.”
Martinez was already reaching for the radio. Jack stepped closer and held out the screen. The agent read it once, then again, his jaw tightening.
“If the Mitchell family helped establish that bank,” Martinez said slowly, “they could have legacy access. Old accounts. Institutional blind spots. Maybe even people on staff who still owe them favors.”
“They may have been watching that box for decades,” Jack said. “Waiting.”
Before Martinez could respond, the radios exploded into layered voices and clipped codes.
“All units, be advised—we have an active shooter situation at First National Bank. Multiple armed individuals have breached the building. Repeat, active shooter at First National Bank.”
