did not own.
At the back of the ledger was a copy of a 1.8-million-dollar mortgage against Bellweather. It was dated January twenty-eighth and carried my father’s signature.
Seven days after his right hand had become useless.
“Grant used the signature stamp,” Evan said. “I never touched it.”
“But you knew.”
“I signed a board resolution.”
“Authorizing the mortgage?”
“He said it was temporary financing.”
“Why would you help him borrow against Dad’s home?”
Evan’s shoulders sagged.
“My brewery failed. I owed suppliers, the bank and two private investors. Grant offered to clear the worst debts if I supported the Bellweather development. Sloane promised me twenty percent.”
“You sold a house you did not own.”
“I thought Dad was going to lose it anyway.”
“You never asked him.”
“He would have said no.”
“That was his right.”
Celia turned another page.
“The mortgage was recorded at eight twelve this morning,” she said.
“After the funeral?”
“They waited until Gideon could no longer challenge it.”
A memory card was taped inside the ledger’s back cover. Three words were written beside it in my father’s hand.
WEST WALL CAMERA.
Evan looked up.
“Grant knows about that camera.”
My phone vibrated with a security alert from Bellweather.
The frozen image showed Sloane standing inside the workshop with a crowbar, facing the west wall.
Celia called the county sheriff as we hurried toward the parking lot.
Rain began striking the windshield before we reached the main road. I drove faster than I should have, with Evan in the back seat explaining between shallow breaths that my father had installed a hidden camera after several antique components disappeared the previous autumn.
“Grant found out about it when we were teenagers,” Evan said. “Dad hid our Christmas presents in the same wall cavity one year. I told Grant about it months ago.”
“Why?”
“He wanted to know whether the camera still worked.”
“And you did not find that suspicious?”
“I already owed him money.”
That sentence contained the whole tragedy of my brother. Every wrong choice had made the next one easier to justify.
We reached Bellweather before the deputy. The workshop’s rear door stood open.
Sloane had removed two wooden panels from the west wall. My father’s tools lay scattered across the floor. She was levering a third panel loose when I entered.
“Step away from the wall,” I said.
She turned, still holding the crowbar.
For the first time since I had known her, her face showed no polish at all.
“You broke into my father’s workshop.”
“I used Grant’s access code. He remains an officer of Ellison Timeworks.”
“You came to destroy evidence.”
“I came to secure company records before you tampered with them.”
Celia entered behind me.
“We have the trust deed, Gideon’s capacity evaluation and the mortgage copy,” she said. “Whatever you are searching for will not change the recording dates.”
Sloane’s gaze moved to the oilcloth parcel beneath Celia’s arm.
Then she saw Evan.
“You followed them?” she asked.
“I told them the truth.”
“No, you panicked. There is a difference.”
A car door slammed outside.
Grant entered through the rear doorway, rain darkening the shoulders of his coat. He looked from Evan to the opened wall and understood immediately.
“Mara,” he said, softening his voice. “This does not have
