Chapter 6 #2
With his hand at the base of my spine, Blake guides me out of the office, down the stairs, and back into the Wintervale cold where snow's falling heavier now. The SUV's still there, still watching. Don’t they have better shit to do?
"Where to now?" I ask.
"Now we look at everything your mother sent Talia.” He unlocks the car, holds my door. “It's time we find out what ammunition you’re working with.”
We don't go back to Blake's apartment. Instead, he drives us to the outskirts of Wintervale, to an area I don't recognize. There are old industrial buildings and repurposed warehouses, the kind of neighborhood that's either gentrifying or dying. Frankly, it’s hard to tell which.
After shaking the tail on us (which he could have done a long time ago), he pulls into an underground garage beneath a building that looks abandoned from the outside.
"Safe house," he explains. "Talia owns it through a shell company. There’s no connection to my family, no connection to anything. We can work here without eyes.”
The apartment is sparsely decorated with functional furniture, blackout curtains, and a desktop computer that looks more sophisticated than anything I've seen outside of government facilities.
"Talia's setup," Blake says, booting up the system. "Encrypted, air-gapped, completely secure. Whatever's on your mother's flash drive, we can view it here without anyone knowing."
I hand him the flash drive with trembling fingers.
He inserts it and pulls up a chair beside me.
The screen flickers to life.
LILA'S FILES - LAST MODIFIED: MARCH 15, THREE YEARS AGO
Three years ago. Two months before she died.
Blake opens the first folder. GENEALOGY
Inside are scanned documents, including birth certificates, marriage licenses, and death records.
Some of which I’ve seen on the hard copies Talia gave me.
There’s a family tree that stretches back five generations, connecting my mother to Edmund Kingsley through his youngest daughter, Catherine, who was disowned in 1962 for marrying a black civil rights activist.
Consequently, my great-grandmother’s name was struck from the family Bible, her inheritance was denied, and she was erased from the official record as if she never existed. But the documents in front of me don't lie. The bloodline is clear, unbroken, and legally verifiable.
"She traced it," I whisper. "Every generation, every connection. This is what Dr. Richardson needs for comparison."
"There's more." Blake opens the next folder.
FINANCIAL RECORDS
Spreadsheets. Bank accounts. Shell corporations. A labyrinth of money moving through Wintervale's founding families like blood through arteries. And there, highlighted in yellow, are transactions that may be tied to my mother's death.
A payment of $500,000 from a Kingsley family trust to a shell company called Ember Holdings LLC, three days before my mother died.
My eyes widen when I notice another payment of $250,000 from the same trust to a law firm I recognize. It’s the firm that handled her autopsy, the investigation, and the settlement with my father.
"They paid them off," I say. My voice sounds distant, hollow. "Paid the investigators. Paid my father. Paid everyone to look the other way."
“We’re not sure about your father’s involvement,” Blake says in an effort to soothe me. “Keep reading.”
I scroll down. More payments. More shell companies. And one name that appears over and over, receiving funds from multiple sources.
Marcus Thorne.
The prosecutor who closed my mother's case.
"He's been on the Kingsley payroll for years," Blake says, reading over my shoulder. "Your mother found it and documented it, probably not understanding what she was reading.”
“Her own death warrant.”
“Yes,” Blake agrees solemnly.
“This is enough to destroy him?” I hope.
"This is enough to destroy all of those motherfuckers.”
The third folder is labeled INSURANCE.
Inside is a video file.
My hands hover over the mouse. I'm not sure I want to see this. Not sure I can handle whatever my mother left behind.
But I click anyway.
The video starts.
My mother's face fills the screen. She looks tired, scared, but determined. She's sitting in what looks like a hotel room, hair pulled back, no makeup, wearing a sweater I remember from childhood. For the first time ever, I can clearly see myself in her.
"Peyton." Her voice cracks. "If you're watching this, it means I didn't make it. It means they got to me before I could finish what I started."
Tears blur my vision. I feel Blake's hand on the back of my neck, steady, grounding.
"I'm so sorry that I wasn't stronger, baby. That I wasn't smarter or careful enough." She takes a shaky breath. "But I need you to know the truth about who you are, about what you're entitled to, and about why they're so afraid of you."
She leans closer to the camera, and I see it now—the fear in her eyes, the certainty that time is running out.
"You're a Kingsley by blood. Yes, I know that sounds absurd, but the truth is often stranger than fiction. I’ve done the research. You’re a direct descendant of Catherine Kingsley-Morrison, your great-grandmother.
There's a clause in the Kingsley family trust, Article Seven, Section Three, that grants you proxy authority if you claim your inheritance during Christmas week.
They buried it, hoping no one would ever find it.
But I found it, Peyton. And now you need to use it. "
“I don’t understand why Grandma Catherine’s heirs were provided for in a trust if she was expelled from the family, but that doesn’t matter right now.” She pulls out some papers and holds them to the camera. "This is everything you need. Proof of lineage. Documentation of their corruption."
Her hands are shaking. I can see it even through the screen.
"They'll come for you," she says. "The Kingsleys, the men of the Hollow Club, maybe even people you trust. These are families that have controlled this town since its inception. Families I never had interaction with living on the outskirts of their world. But what I’ve learned is that they'll offer you deals, threaten you, and try to make you believe you're not strong enough to fight them. "
She leans even closer, and now her eyes are fierce, burning with something that looks like rage and love twisted together.
"Don't believe them. You're my daughter. You're a Kingsley, whether they acknowledge it or not, and you're stronger than any of them will ever be."
A tear slides down her cheek. She wipes it away impatiently.
"I love you, Peyton. I'm so proud of who you are. Who you'll become. And I'm sorry I won't be there to see it." Her voice breaks. "But you don't need me. You never did. You just needed to know the truth."
She reaches for the camera.
"Finish this. Claim what's ours. Remind them that the Morrison side of the family doesn’t play fair and can fight dirty. Burn them down if you have to. Just promise me you'll survive. Because at the end of the day, that’s all that matters.”
The screen goes black.
I'm crying. I can't help it, and I can't stop it. Tears stream down my face as I stare at the empty screen where my mother's ghost just spoke to me from three years ago.
Blake pulls me into his arms, and I collapse against him, sobbing into his chest while he holds me together.
"She knew," I choke out. "She knew they were going to kill her, and she did it anyway."
"She did it for you."
"And they murdered her for it. Paid people off. Covered it up. Made it look like an accident." Rage burns through the grief, hot and clarifying. "They killed my mother because she found out the truth."
"Yes."
"And they'll kill me too if I claim the inheritance. If I expose them. They'll do to me what they did to her."
"Not while I'm breathing." Blake's arms tighten around me. "I won't let them touch you."
"You can't promise that."
"Watch me, beautiful.”
I pull back to look at his face. It’s fierce, determined, and full of a protective fury that should scare me, but it doesn't.
“I know you’re doing your best, but they’re not going to stop, are they? They'll keep coming. Keep trying. And eventually—"
"Eventually we'll win." Blake frames my face with his hands, forces me to meet his eyes. "Because we have something they don't. We have the truth, we have evidence, and we have nothing left to lose."
“That’s not true. I have you to lose."
The vulnerable words come out of my mouth before I can stop them. I can’t even believe I said them myself. The magnitude of this situation must be getting to me, and I wish I could backpedal my words until I notice that Blake's expression softens.
"You're not going to lose me,” he says.
“I’m sorry,” I stutter. “I didn’t mean that.”
“Well, I did.” He kisses me. This time it’s soft, tender, different from the claiming kiss in the hallway.
This one feels more like a protective promise that I savor with each passing second.
"Because I'm all in, remember? That means I'm with you until this is over.
Until you're safe. Until every bastard who hurt your mother answers for it. "
"That's a long list."
"Then we'd better get started."
All I want right now is this, Blake's arms around me, his heartbeat steady against my cheek, and the knowledge that I'm not alone in this fight.
"Thank you," I whisper.
"For what?"
"For being here, for not running, and for kissing me in that hallway, even though you knew it would complicate everything."
"Peyton." His voice is rough, warm. "Kissing you was the least complicated thing I've done since coming back to Wintervale."
I almost smile. "That's a low bar."
"Yeah, well. You set it."
We stay like that for a long moment, holding each other while the video replays in my mind, my mother's voice echoing through the silence.
Finish this. Claim what's yours. Burn them down if you have to.
I will, Mom. I promise.
But first, I need to survive.
And with Blake Delano at my side, maybe just maybe I actually can.
My phone buzzes. I pull it out, expecting another threat. Instead, it's a text from a different unknown number.
Unknown: Christmas Gala tomorrow night. Frostbourne Estate. Your presence is requested. Come alone, or come with your guard dog. Either way, come. We have much to discuss. - Edmund Kingsley
I show Blake.
“Another fucking Christmas party.” His jaw tightens. "It's a trap."
"Obviously."
"You're not going."
"I have to. If Edmund Kingsley himself is inviting me, that means he knows about the DNA, the clause, and about everything." I take a breath. "This is my chance to face them. All of them. On neutral ground with witnesses."
"There's no such thing as neutral ground in Wintervale. I can’t protect you in his house.”
“Correction, my house.” I stand, square my shoulders, and become the senator's daughter who's learned how to smile through unpleasantries. "My mother spent three years building this case. She died for it. I'm not going to waste that by hiding."
"Peyton, we don’t have all of our ducks in a row yet.”
"I'm going to that house, Blake, with or without you." I meet his eyes, let him see my determination. "But I'd really prefer it were with you."
He stares at me for a long moment, then curses under his breath. "You're going to get us both killed."
"Probably."
Blake pulls me close and kisses the top of my head.
“Is it safe for me to go home?”
“Hell no.”
“I need things. Another dress. A warmer coat.”
“I’ll buy you anything you need. You’re coming home with me.”
He clasps my hand as we make our way outside, where the quiet snow continues to fall on Wintervale, covering sins, burying secrets, making everything look clean and pure and innocent.
But we know better.
This town is built on deception and lies, but tomorrow we start collecting debts. I'm done being the thing people take from. Soon, I become the thing they fear.
A Kingsley on Christmas Eve.
Who’s holding a motherfucking grudge.