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Theo shifts closer, “What?”

“Victoria was writing a memoir. From the looks of it, a fucking tell-all.” I shove the pages toward him. “She was going to sell it.”

The folder isn’t just a memoir draft. It’s a bomb Victoria was preparing to drop on her own family.

The early pages detail the Mayfair wealth, specifically a large, undocumented payout made in the late ‘90s, hidden under the guise of a charitable donation that never actually existed. I guess Theo didn’t lie about that part.

Victoria’s own handwriting is scrawled in the margins: Thomas. But there seems to be pages missing after that.

Further in, she outlines Henry’s stranglehold over the family’s assets, hinting at how deeply entrenched he was at laundering money and tossing it around to cover the family’s past mistakes. References to manipulated records, backdated financial statements, and one unnerving mention of a check written to a coroner with only a date.

Another page claims Thomas paid off a local detective after an incident involving one of the groundskeepers went unreported. There’s a vague mention of Katherine’s social club being used to funnel hush money under the table. Even Nora’s name is circled in one spot, followed by a line that is somehow not shocking to me at all: microdoses psilocybin, has offered it to the grandchildren—and a separate note in tighter handwriting beneath it: Baryn—father unknown.

But it’s the final pages that are the most questionable—not polished drafts, but frantic, handwritten notes. No organization, no structure, just scrawled thoughts in the margins, entire sections crossed out or rewritten, like she couldn’t decide how much she was willing to say.

Theo’s jaw ticks. “Christ.”

I nod absently. “She named all the names.”

We exchange a look, the weight of the realization heavy between us.

Theo releases a quiet whistle. “This is no family history piece.”

Which means multiple people in this house had a reason to make sure it never saw the light of day.

It’s odd to me that Evelyn could have found this herself. Gotten rid of it. Then again, she is elderly. Maybe that’s why she wanted us to snoop around, to find it for her. I can imagine she wouldn’t want anyone in the family to be the one to find it, especially not if she suspects one of them could have been behind all this. Murdering Victoria. Murdering her husband. How would she know who to trust?

Then again, why does she think she can trust us?

I drop the page and scrub at my face. “I need a cigarette.”

Theo looks affronted. “You smoke?”

“God, no,” I reply.

He raises an eyebrow at me.

“Always gotta crack a little jokey joke to diffuse the tension,” I say, shooting him with my very cool finger guns (no pun intended).

10

COLD STORAGE

LILA

The hallway is dim and too fucking long when you’re this drained from the day, but I’m starving. My bare feet make no sound on the runner, and the polished wood walls reflect the faintest shimmer from the sconces, gilded and ghostly.

All I can think about are the tunnels.

Of course there are tunnels. Of course this place has secret goddamn passageways. I shouldn’t be surprised, and I honestly don’t know why I didn’t consider it an option sooner, as if I haven’t read every single Nancy Drew book.

There’s just something about seeing them on the blueprints, the crude outline of underground paths that bypass entire wings of the house.

It makes my skin crawl.

Not just because the tunnels exist—but because someone’s absolutely been using them.

The inconsistencies in the footage. The unexplained time gaps. The security system that never once triggered.