Eric’s gaze shifted between them, and then his mouth curved into the first true smile Jack had seen since the attack. “Son, I figured that out the moment I watched the two of you try to pretend you weren’t terrified of losing each other.”
Jack felt heat touch his face, but he didn’t look away. “I’m planning to ask her to marry me, sir. Assuming she’ll have me after everything I put her through.”
Eric’s smile deepened. “About time. Annie’s been carrying a torch for you long enough that I was starting to worry it would scorch the furniture.”
“Uncle Eric,” Annie protested, her face coloring.
He waved it off gently, then turned back to Jack, his expression shifting into something quieter, more solemn. “Annie is the most important person in my life. She’s smart, stubborn, compassionate, and brave to the point of recklessness. She’s also been hurt. I won’t stand by and watch anyone do that to her again.”
Jack met his gaze without hesitation. “Neither will I. I love her. I’ve loved her for years. And I intend to spend the rest of my life proving that.”
Eric studied him for a long moment, the silence weighted but not uncomfortable. Then he nodded. “Good. Because with this inheritance coming into the family, Annie’s going to need someone she can trust without question. Someone who loved her before any of this existed.”
Jack glanced at Annie, saw the emotion shining unguarded in her eyes, and felt something settle inside his chest that had been restless for far too long.
Agent Chen cleared her throat politely, drawing them back toward practicalities. “We should also discuss the administrative side of this transition. Mr. Whitaker, you’ll need financial advisors, legal counsel, and representation for the media. There will be interviews. Statements. Court proceedings.”
“I want Annie involved in all of it,” Eric said immediately. “She’s the one who found the locket. She’s the one who preserved the evidence. Any decisions that come from this, she has a voice.”
Jack felt a surge of pride as he watched Annie’s reaction—not surprise, but quiet acceptance of responsibility. She had never shied away from the truth. She wouldn’t start now.
“There’s one more thing,” Jack said, pulling his phone from his pocket. “The story’s already starting to break. Uncle Eric, you’re about to become very famous.”
Eric sighed, then shook his head. “Well. I suppose there are worse ways to be known than for helping uncover the truth about a murdered woman.”
As the conversation shifted to logistics—attorneys, temporary housing, protective details—Jack found his thoughts drifting back to Eleanor Blackwood. To a woman who had hidden truth in metal and ink because she believed the future could be better than her present. To a woman who had trusted that one day, someone in her family would be stubborn enough, brave enough, and decent enough to finish what she had started.
Looking at Annie and Uncle Eric, Jack knew she had been right.
Now it was their turn to carry what she had preserved—and to make sure the justice she had waited nearly a century for truly mattered.
Chapter 20
Three Weeks Later
Annie stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows of the law firm’s conference room, watching late-morning traffic crawl through downtown Nashville. The city looked exactly as it always had—people heading to work, delivery trucks easing into loading zones, pedestrians weaving through crosswalks with coffee cups in hand—ordinary life continuing as if nothing monumental had happened. And yet, nothing in her own world felt ordinary anymore.
Three weeks had passed since Sarah Mitchell’s arrest. Three weeks since Eleanor Blackwood’s evidence had been carried out of a bank vault and into the hands of federal prosecutors. Three weeks since Uncle Eric had learned that the quiet life he’d built as a high school history teacher rested atop a legacy stolenthrough murder nearly a century earlier. Annie still hadn’t fully wrapped her mind around it. Some mornings she woke, expecting the weight of the locket at her throat to be nothing more than a strange dream. Some nights she lay awake replaying the sound of the countdown timer, the way the numbers had glowed red against the marble walls, the way Jack’s voice had cut through the chaos like an anchor.
Behind her, the low murmur of voices filled the conference room. Attorneys, financial advisors, forensic accountants, and federal investigators worked through what felt like an endless sea of documents—ledgers and asset reports, incorporation filings and court orders, all tracing the slow, careful movement of money that had begun with Richard Mitchell’s crime and grown into a criminal empire disguised as respectability. The long mahogany table was crowded with neatly stacked folders and open laptops, each page another piece of Eleanor’s story being returned to the light.
“Ms. Whitaker?”
Annie turned from the window at the sound of David Morrison’s voice. The estate attorney stood near the end of the table, holding out a thin folder. “We’re ready for your signature on the foundation documents.”
She crossed the room to where Uncle Eric sat, glasses perched on his nose, his once-familiar legal pad replaced by documents that would have overwhelmed most people. He looked tired, but steady—still healing physically, still adjusting emotionally, but present in a way that told her he was meeting this new reality head-on.
“You sure about this?” Annie asked quietly as she reviewed the papers. “This represents giving away almost fifty million dollars.”
Eric’s mouth curved into the same gentle smile she remembered from childhood, the one he’d worn when she’dpanicked over missed homework assignments or broken friendships. “Annie, sweetheart, what exactly would I do with fifty million dollars? Buy a fleet of fishing boats and spend the rest of my life learning how to sink them?” He shook his head. “Eleanor didn’t preserve that evidence, so her family could live in luxury. She preserved it so the truth could stand. So justice could matter.”
Annie swallowed past the tightness in her throat and signed her name beside his, the pen feeling heavier than it should have. The Eric Whitaker Foundation for Victims’ Rights. Legal aid. Trauma counseling. Financial assistance for families navigating the aftermath of violent crime. It wasn’t wealth he was claiming. It was responsibility.
“The remaining assets will be placed in a family trust,” Morrison explained. “Enough to ensure long-term security, but structured to preserve the principal for future generations.”
“And the legitimate Mitchell businesses?” Annie asked. “The ones not directly tied to criminal activity?”
“They’ll continue operating under new management,” Morrison replied. “We’ve identified several ethical firms interested in stabilizing the companies and protecting the employees while severing all prior associations.”
