Chapter 3 - Shadows in the StudyBy ten-thirty that evening, the storm outside had intensified. Heavy Oregon rain slammed against the high windows of the living room, masking the low rumble of the television.
Brett sat in his leather recliner, an empty bourbon glass resting on his belly, his breathing heavy and rhythmic. Two empty Coors cans sat on the side table beside an open bag of pork rinds. The leather belt he had wielded earlier hung loosely over the arm of his chair.
I stood at the top of the stairs in the dark hallway, watching him through the banister spindles. Beside me, Elena crouched in silence, her hand gripping mine so tightly her fingernails bit into my palm.
“He’s under,” I whispered.
“He wakes up if he hears the floorboards near his chair,” she warned quietly. “The oak planks in front of the office door squeak.”
“I recorded the hallway layout on my phone earlier,” I whispered, pulling out my device. “I know which planks carry weight.”
I pulled my shoes off, stepping silently into my socks. I handed my phone to Elena. “Stay right here. If he moves, hit the volume button twice. My watch will vibrate.”
She took the phone, her hands shaking, but her jaw was set. For the first time in three years, the dead light in her eyes had been replaced by a flickering spark of hope.
I tiptoed down the upper corridor toward Brett’s office at the far end of the hall. The air smelled of stale tobacco and old paper.
I reached the door. The brass handle was locked, as expected. I pulled a thin steel hair clip from my pocket—a trick my father had taught us when we used to lock ourselves out of the shed as kids. It took forty seconds of careful tension before the tumbler clicked.
I slipped inside and closed the door behind me, leaving it cracked a fraction of an inch to listen for the watch signal.
The office was a disaster. Dad’s hand-carved mahogany desk was covered in unread mail, tax notices, and empty fast-food wrappers. Behind it hung framed photos of Brett’s hunting trips, completely obscuring Dad’s civil engineering degrees.
I dropped to my knees behind the desk and pulled away the thick rug.
There it was: a square steel safe flush with the hardwood floor, secured with a electronic keypad and a keyhole backup.
I didn't have the key, and guessing a six-digit PIN on an industrial safe would lock the keypad after three failed attempts. But Brett was lazy. Men like him didn't memorize complex passwords; they reused numbers that reinforced their ego.
I pulled out my tablet and opened a local public records database I had queried while sitting in the Uber earlier that evening.
I tried his F-250’s license plate number. Error.
I tried his birth year combined with his hunting license ID. Error.
One attempt left before the lockout alarm sounded.
I looked around the room, taking in his self-satisfied memorabilia. My eyes fell on the framed golf photograph on the wall—Pumpkin Ridge Championship, First Place, 2019.
I looked at the score card pinned to the frame. His total score: 071419.
I entered the numbers into the keypad.
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
The status light turned green. A soft mechanical click echoed in the quiet room.
I turned the steel handle and pulled the heavy door open.
Inside lay three thick manila folders, a stack of cash wrapped in paper bands, and a small black digital drive labeled CAMDEN SECURITY BACKUP.
I pulled the first folder out: ESTATE OF ANTHONY MILLER - TRUST MANAGEMENT.
I flipped through the pages quickly, taking high-resolution photos of every single document using my tablet’s scanner app. The paper trail was worse than I had imagined. Brett hadn't just managed the trust; he had systematically liquidated Dad’s life insurance policies, transferring over $600,000 into a shell company registered in Nevada under his own name.
The second folder was labeled: ELENA MILLER - MEDICAL & LEGAL GUARDIANSHIP.
Inside was a psychiatric evaluation signed by a Dr. Arthur Vance, dated three months after Dad died. The diagnosis claimed Elena suffered from severe schizoaffective disorder and was an immediate danger to herself. Attached was a forged signature bearing Elena’s name, waiving her right to a court-appointed independent advocate.
My teeth ground together so hard my jaw pained.
Then I pulled out the third folder. It had no label.
Inside were medical invoices from a private clinic in Seattle, dated six months ago. They weren't for Elena. They were for Brett Camden.
I scanned the diagnosis line: Advanced Stage III Pancreatic Carcinoma.
Beside the diagnosis was an urgent loan application using our childhood home as collateral to finance an experimental off-label treatment program in Mexico. He had mortgaged Dad’s house for $450,000 without court approval, leveraging Elena’s forged guardianship papers to secure the lender's signature.
He wasn't just abusing her to satisfy his petty cruelties; he was draining her dry to keep himself alive, intending to leave her completely bankrupt and homeless when his body finally failed.
Suddenly, my wrist vibrated twice.
Two sharp buzzes.
I froze.
Downstairs, a heavy thud echoed through the floorboards. The recliner spring squeaked violently.
May you like
“Elena?” Brett’s slurred, angry voice boomed up the stairwell. “Where the hell are you?”
I slammed the safe door shut, spun the dial, pulled the rug back into place, and slid under the mahogany desk just as heavy, uneven footsteps began mounting the wooden stairs.
