Chapter 30 Cursed Inheritance
Now
I wake to the sound of breaking news echoing through our grimy motel room, Max’s hand gentle on my shoulder as he coaxes me from the restless sleep that finally claimed me near dawn.
The television screen flickers with images of Massachusetts General Hospital, reporters clustered outside like vultures waiting for carrion.
“Belle,” Max says softly, his voice carrying relief that makes my chest tight with hope I don’t dare fully embrace. “David’s awake.”
The words hit me like sunlight after endless darkness.
I sit up too quickly, the cheap motel sheets falling away as I focus on the reporter’s words: “…District Attorney David Stone regained consciousness early this morning. Sources close to the investigation say he’s expected to make a full recovery… ”
“Thank God,” I breathe, pressing my palm against my heart where it hammers with relief so profound it’s almost painful. “Max, if he’s okay—”
“Then we have a chance,” he finishes, settling beside me on the sagging mattress. His dark hair is tousled from sleep, stubble shadowing his jaw, but his eyes are alert with the same cautious hope I feel blooming in my chest.
The motel room looks different in daylight—still grimy and depressing, but somehow less oppressive.
The water stains on the ceiling form patterns that might be clouds instead of omens.
The industrial carpet bears witness to decades of transient lives, but it’s contained our secrets for one night without betraying us.
“Since they already know where we are,” I say, reaching for my laptop with hands that only tremble slightly, “I might as well check my email. Maybe there’s something useful.”
Max nods, though tension pulls at the corners of his eyes. We both know that opening this digital door means exposing ourselves to whatever psychological warfare our enemies have prepared. But hiding in ignorance feels more dangerous than facing whatever truths await.
The laptop boots with agonizing slowness, each second stretching like hours.
When my email finally loads, most of the messages are spam or academic notifications that belong to a life that feels impossibly distant now.
But there, buried among the digital detritus, is a message from Jessica that makes my breath catch.
From: J.Yarros.Secure@[encrypted]
Subject: Inheritance
Belle – I’m safe, in hiding, but I found something you need to know immediately.
Your family’s assets may be frozen, but there’s an account in your name that predates all of this.
It was established by someone named Margaret Gallagher – your grandmother?
The attached documents will explain everything.
Please be careful. Someone doesn’t want this information to surface.
– J
My grandmother. I have only the haziest memories of Margaret Gallagher—a stern woman with silver hair who visited when I was very young, who spoke in hushed tones with my mother and disappeared from our lives when I was eleven.
My parents claimed she died of cancer, but looking back, their explanations always felt rehearsed, hollow.
“Belle?” Max’s voice seems to come from very far away. “What is it?”
I show him the email, watching his expression shift from curiosity to something approaching dread as he reads Jessica’s words. When I click on the attachments, the first document that opens is a bank statement showing an account balance that makes my vision blur.
Twenty-three million dollars.
“Jesus Christ,” Max whispers, leaning closer to study the screen. “Belle, that’s… that’s enough to disappear forever. New identities, safe houses, protection that doesn’t depend on government agencies.”
But it’s the second attachment that steals my breath completely. A letter, written in careful script on paper that’s yellowed with age:
My dearest Belle,
If you’re reading this, then the worst has happened. The network has claimed your parents, and you’ve discovered the truth about what we really are. I pray you’re stronger than I was, braver than I ever managed to be.
I was chosen to be The Architect’s bride when I was seventeen.
It was presented as an honor—the chance to stand beside the most powerful person in the network, to bear children who would inherit a legacy of influence that stretched across generations.
But I discovered the truth: The Architect doesn’t take wives. He takes breeding stock.
I fled on our wedding night, taking nothing but the clothes I wore and a determination to build a life free from their influence. I thought I’d escaped. I was wrong.
They let me marry your grandfather, let me have children, let me believe I was free.
But I was never free. I was a long-term investment, a way to create bloodlines they could harvest when the time was right.
Your mother, your father—they were raised from birth to serve the network.
And you, my precious granddaughter, were always meant to be the prize.
The money in this account represents everything I managed to steal from them over thirty years of careful planning. Swiss accounts, shell companies, investments that couldn’t be traced back to the network’s main operations.
But Belle, you must understand: this is bigger than your parents, bigger than any single operation you’ve witnessed. The Architect I knew died fourteen years ago, but the network continued. Someone took his place, someone who’s been planning your family’s downfall from the moment you were born.
The photographs in the final attachment show the face of my Architect. Study it carefully. Patterns repeat in our world, and the sins of the past have a way of echoing through generations.
Use this money to disappear, my darling. Use it to build a life they can never touch. But if you choose to fight—and I pray you’re brave enough to make that choice—then use it as a weapon against the very system that created us all.
With all my love and desperate hope for your freedom,
Your grandmother, Margaret
P.S. The account password is the date you first refused to obey them. You know the one.
I stare at the screen until the words blur, my chest tight with emotions I don’t have names for.
My grandmother didn’t die of cancer. She was murdered—silenced before she could share whatever intelligence she’d been gathering.
And the money, this impossible fortune, represents decades of her fighting back in the only way she could.
“Belle.” Max’s voice is gentle, understanding. “The password. Do you know what date she means?”
I think back through my childhood, through the endless parade of gatherings and performances and calculated submissions. Then it hits me—the memory so clear it might have happened yesterday instead of seven years ago.
“November twenty-seventh,” I whisper. “I was eleven years old. Morrison wanted me to… to go upstairs with him during one of the parties. And for the first time in my life, I said no.”
Max nods slowly. “What happened?”
“My father was furious. Said I’d embarrassed the family, damaged important relationships. He locked me in my room for three days without food.” The memory tastes like ash and old fear. “But my grandmother smuggled me sandwiches through the window. She said she was proud of me for being brave.”
I type in the date: 1127. The account unlocks immediately, revealing not just the staggering balance but additional files my grandmother left for me. Financial records showing the network’s true scope. Names and addresses of safe houses. Contact information for allies I never knew existed.
And at the bottom of the digital treasure trove, a folder labeled simply: “The Face of Evil.”
My hands shake as I open it, revealing a collection of old photographs that make the air in the motel room feel suddenly thin.
Black and white images from what looks like the 1970s and 80s, showing a tall man with sharp features and pale eyes addressing groups of well-dressed people in elegant settings.
He looks familiar. Disturbingly, impossibly familiar.
“Max,” I breathe, enlarging the clearest photograph. “Do you recognize him?”
Max leans closer, studying the image with the same growing sense of recognition I feel crawling up my spine. “I’ve seen this face before. Recently. But where…?”
The answer hits us both at the same moment, our eyes meeting in shared horror as the pieces fall into place with sickening clarity.
“The school portrait,” I whisper. “In the administration building at Shark Bay. The founder’s gallery.”
I stare at the photograph until my eyes water, the familiar features seeming to mock me from across decades of carefully buried history.
The man in the image has the same sharp cheekbones, the same calculating stare, but he’s younger here—maybe in his forties, addressing a room full of well-dressed people with the confidence of someone born to command.
“I’ve seen this face before,” Max says, his voice barely above a whisper. “Recently. But I can’t place where.”
My blood turns to ice water as fragments of memory surface—not clear recollections, but impressions. A profile glimpsed in passing. A gesture that seemed familiar. Something about the way this man holds himself that I recognize but can’t quite identify.
“The ring,” I breathe suddenly, remembering my morning run conversation with Mrs. Harpsons. “Max, she was wearing a platinum ring with a distinctive design. I couldn’t place where I’d seen it before, but now…”
I point to the photograph, to the man’s left hand, where an identical ring catches the light.
“That’s the same ring,” Max says, leaning closer. “But Belle, if Mrs. Harpsons has that ring…”