Part 14
I waited until Charlotte was fast asleep that night before I opened the first journal.
The house was perfectly quiet, save for the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway.
I lit a small candle, wrapped myself in a warm blanket, and turned to the first page.
My father’s neat script dated back to thirty years ago, before I was even born.
The early entries described a young man full of ambition, deeply in love with a brilliant, captivating woman—my mother.
But as I flipped through the pages, the tone of the writing began to shift.
The romance faded, replaced by an undercurrent of growing unease and isolation.
He wrote about how my mother began isolating him from his lifelong friends, whispering doubts into his ear.
She convinced him that everyone was after his money, that the world was full of predators waiting to take what was his.
It was the exact same blueprint she had used on me, and later, the same tactics Kendra attempted.
It was a chilling realization: my mother wasn't just a product of greed; she was an architect of it.
"She views people as chess pieces," my father had written in an entry dated two years before his death.
"Even our daughter is spoken of as an asset, a tool to secure future alliances and wealth.
I try to shield the girl, but my health is failing, and I fear what will happen when I am gone."
I stopped reading, a tear slipping down my cheek and hitting the aged paper.
A profound wave of validation washed over me, soothing a childhood wound I didn't know was still bleeding.
I hadn't been crazy. I hadn't been an ungrateful, difficult child.
I had been a target, exactly as my father had feared.
The later entries detailed a hidden piece of property—an old coastal estate far north of where we currently lived.
According to my father, this land was bought with his own independent earnings, completely separate from the family trust.
My mother had tried for years to force him to sign it over to her, but he had steadfastly refused.
"The deed is held in a private trust under a pseudonym," the entry read.
"It is a sanctuary, untouched by her malice. It belongs to you, my daughter. The coordinates and keys are sealed within the back cover of this book."
I run my fingers along the inside back cover of the journal, feeling a slight ridge.
With careful movements, I pried apart the heavy cardboard lining.
A small, tarnished silver key and a folded piece of parchment fell into my lap.
The parchment contained a set of coordinates and a simple map drawn by my father's hand.
A sense of wonder replaced the lingering sadness in my heart.
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My mother and Kendra had fought like vultures over a trust fund that was cursed by greed.
Meanwhile, a true sanctuary, given freely out of love, had been waiting for me all along.
