Chapter 9 - Locker 404
The old harbor transit hub was a relic of the industrial boom, a cavernous iron shed filled with rows of olive-green rental lockers smelling of salt air, rust, and diesel. Outside, the foghorns groaned mournfully against the black expanse of the bay.
Victoria walked through the dim aisles, the stolen trench coat draped over Clara, her own bloodied and soot-stained dress hidden beneath Arthur's second wool jacket from the trunk. Every footstep echoed against the vaulted tin ceiling.
Row 4. Locker 404.
Victoria inserted the brass key. The lock resisted with a stiff click before turning. The metal door swung open with a screech.
Inside lay a single waterproof shipping ledger, wrapped tightly in oilcloth, alongside an antique leather holster holding a heavy service automatic, and a small stack of black-and-white photographs.
Victoria reached for the photographs first.
The top picture was taken twelve years ago in a private clinic outside Zurich. It showed Helena, pale and exhausted, holding a newborn child. But standing beside the bed was not Richard Vance.
It was Julian Vance.
Victoria felt her breath catch in her throat. Her eyes darted down to the legal documents beneath the pictures. Paternity tests, signed deeds of trust, and sworn affidavits stamped by the high court.
"Richard isn't your father," Victoria whispered, her voice trembling as the catastrophic puzzle snapped into place.
Clara stepped closer, staring at the photograph of the man with the scarred face holding her as an infant. "Mama said my father was a monster who tried to trade me for his brother’s company."
"No," Victoria realized with horrifying clarity. "Richard wanted you dead because you aren't his child. You are Julian’s legitimate daughter with Helena—before Richard forced Helena out to secure the Vance estate. You hold fifty-one percent of the Vance trust by direct bloodline. Not Richard. Not me."
Behind them, the metal doors of the transit shed groaned as they were dragged open along their iron tracks.
May you like
Footsteps echoed on the concrete. Not one man, but a dozen.
"A brilliant deduction, sister-in-law," a smooth, venomous voice called out from the mist. Julian Vance walked into the aisle, his tailored overcoat pristine, flanked by six armed men in tactical gear. "It took you twelve years to read the will. Unfortunately, the reading period is closed."
