40. Chapter 40
Chapter forty
The Wraith
The Allister estate sits behind iron gates and old money.
The property sprawls across several meticulously maintained acres, tucked away from the remainder of the world behind stone walls, towering oaks, and the kind of privacy only wealth can buy.
The mansion itself rises from the center of the grounds like a monument to generational success. Three stories of limestone and glass. Expansive balconies. Decorative columns. Perfect symmetry.
Every inch of it is designed to communicate the same message. Power.
The landscaping is immaculate. Hedges trimmed with geometric precision. Flowerbeds bursting with carefully selected seasonal color. Not a weed or a stray branch in sight. Even the gravel lining the pathways looks arranged by hand.
Even in daylight, the soft landscape lighting illuminates the grounds in warm pools of gold, highlighting fountains, sculptures, and gardens that probably cost more than most people make in a year.
The place is beautiful. In the same way a museum is beautiful. Expensive and completely devoid of warmth.
Nothing about the estate feels lived in. It feels maintained. Preserved. Like the Allister’s spent decades polishing the image of a perfect family while carefully sweeping everything ugly beneath the surface.
People see places like this and assume safety. I see something else. I see secrets hidden behind expensive walls. I see a family that built a fortress around its reputation. And like every fortress, it has weaknesses.
The side gate opens where Reese said it would.
“You’re welcome,” Reese says through my earpiece.
I smirk. “Remind me why I keep you around.”
“Because without me you’d get caught fucker.”
“Fair.”
The gate clicks shut behind me. Then I’m moving.
I stay off the pathways, slipping through the shadows cast by decorative sculptures and manicured hedges. Wealth loves excess. Even in broad daylight, it leaves just enough cover for someone who knows where to look.
Daylight exposes everything. There are fewer places to disappear, fewer mistakes you can afford to make. Becoming a shadow takes patience, timing, and knowing where people aren’t looking.
Fortunately, I’ve had years of practice.
Somewhere in the distance, water trickles from an ornamental fountain. Beyond that, nothing. No voices. No footsteps. No movement.
Good.
Reese confirmed David and Elinor left more than an hour ago for a luncheon at their country club. No groundskeepers or cleaning crew right now.
The estate is empty—the way I like it.
I move between pools of light, careful to never cross directly through them. To an observer, it would look like nothing more than shifting shadows and moving branches.
The study sits on the first floor. I already know the route. I’ve studied the floor plans and reviewed security footage to estimate the timed camera rotations.
The work happened long before today. Today is execution.
Most people think breaking into a house is about locks and alarms. It isn’t. It’s about timing. Knowing when people leave, like the maids and personal cooks. Knowing when they’ll return. Understanding their routines better than they do.
The lock on the side entrance gives way in less than thirty seconds. The door opens and I slip inside and close it behind me without a sound.
The house feels different from the outside. Just the quiet ticking of an expensive grandfather clock somewhere deep in the house.
I move through a corridor, make a turn, then another hallway. The office door appears where it should. Locked as expected too.
The bypass tool disappears into the lock. A few careful adjustments, then a soft click. The mechanism releases and the door swings inward.
The room smells of leather, old paper, and expensive wood polish.
I step into the room and shut the door.
Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line the walls, filled with leather-bound volumes that look more decorative than read. Family photographs sit among them in polished silver frames.
I move slowly past them, trying to spot anything purposefully hidden.
David and Elinor at some charity gala. Cole standing between his sisters at a graduation. Grandchildren on a beach somewhere. A carefully curated history of wealth, family, and appearances.
Then I stop. One photograph catches my attention.
It’s not professionally staged like the others. It’s a newspaper clipping. The frame is simple compared to the others, almost worn from age.
I step closer. It’s Lina.
The article announces the grand opening of Enchanted Nook. She’s standing in front of the shop, smiling beneath the bookstore sign. Proud and hopeful.
My chest tightens unexpectedly. Of all the photographs in this room, this is the one that doesn’t belong. Or maybe it’s the only one that does.
I stare at it for several seconds. People don’t frame newspaper clippings by accident. They frame moments that matter. Moments they’re proud of and want to remember.
The frame sits near David’s desk instead of the family shelves, positioned where he’d see it every day. Displayed.
My gaze drifts over the room again. Every other photograph tells the story David wants the world to see. This one feels different. Personal.
I think about Lina’s stories. The years of neglect. The manipulation. The way the Allister name follows every painful memory. Yet here sits a photograph of her bookstore, carefully preserved among his most valued possessions.
A man doesn’t display a picture like this if he hates someone. He doesn’t keep it within arm’s reach if he’s rooting for their failure. And he sure as hell doesn’t frame it if he’s plotting their death.
“Alex.” Reese’s voice crackles.
“You good?”
“Yeah,” I look away from the photo.
Work. I’m here to work.
The study yields almost nothing for the first twenty minutes. Investment reports. Tax records. Property assessments. The kind of paperwork wealthy families accumulate by existing.
I close another folder and suppress my frustration.
“Anything?” Reese asks through my earpiece.
“No.”
“That’s disappointing. I was hoping for a full written confession and maybe a map to buried bodies.”
I ignore him. Smartass.
The office itself tells me more than the paperwork. David’s desk is organized. Meticulous. Everything in its place.
Elinor’s influence is everywhere else in the house—expensive décor, staged to perfection. This room feels different. Functional and very private.
My eyes roam and settle on a locked cabinet built into the wall.
“There you are.”
The lock takes less than a minute.
Inside are several banker boxes. Most contain old trust records. Then I find a smaller file. Bank statements. Personal banking records.
I flip through the pages. Several large withdrawals catch my attention.
Not because of the amounts. Because of the destinations.
The money moves through multiple accounts.
Consulting firms. Management groups. Holding companies.
Generic names designed to disappear into paperwork.
The kind of entities that exist solely to make money difficult to follow.
I turn another page. Then pause. A red circle surrounds one of the transactions. My eyes narrow.
I flip forward. Another circle. And another. Every withdrawal that raised questions in my mind has already been marked.
I scan the margins. No notes or explanations. Just red ink. Small circles around amounts, account numbers, and company names.
The markings aren’t random. They’re deliberate. Methodical. The work of someone building a list and tracking a pattern.
For several seconds, I stare at the pages. Then I lean back in the chair.
“That’s interesting.”
“What?” Reese asks.
I take a picture and send it.
A moment later his low whistle crackles through the earpiece.
“Well, that’s not suspicious at all.”
My gaze drops back to the documents. The circles vary slightly in thickness and pressure. Different days. Different pens. Whoever marked these didn’t sit down and review everything at once. They came back to it. Again and again. Adding new transactions as they appeared.
Which means this wasn’t curiosity. This was a concern.
A slow realization settles in my chest. I’ve spent weeks assuming David Allister was part of the problem. That he knew more than he admitted. But these documents tell a different story. The same story my instincts have been trying to tell me since I stepped into this office.
A framed newspaper clipping of Lina. Trust records pulled from storage. Bank statements hidden in a locked cabinet. And now this. Red circles around transactions that don’t make sense.
Not the behavior of a man orchestrating a conspiracy. The behavior of a man quietly investigating one.
I turn another page. A transfer catches my eye. Three hundred thousand dollars. Same company. Same red circle.
My jaw tightens.
Maybe David doesn’t know what’s happening. Maybe he’s only seeing pieces. Following breadcrumbs. Asking questions. The same questions I am.
I photograph every page. “Sending something over now.”
Reese is quiet for several seconds, then. “Hmmm,” Reese says.
“What do you see?” I ask.
“Some of these companies don’t actually appear to do anything.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning they’re either laundering money or hiding it.”
Now we’re getting somewhere.
I continue searching. Nothing else jumps out. Whoever built this operation knows how to hide their tracks. Which means the real information won’t be here. It’ll be at the source. The bank.
Before leaving, I pull a small device from my pocket. No larger than a USB drive. I kneel beneath David’s desk and attach it to the underside. A tiny green light flashes once before disappearing. I then place a tiny camera on one of the picture frames facing the desk.
“You’re in,” I say to Reese.
Reese sounds far too happy based on the eager clicking from his keyboard.
“I’ll have eyes on the office twenty-four seven now.”
“Good.”