Chapter 8 - THE TRAIN TICKET
I picked up Ethan’s notebook, my eyes locked on the faded train ticket slipping from the pages.
Union Station to Springfield. Dated August 14th.
The exact day my mother had died.
Christopher had just confessed to manipulating both me and Vanessa, threatening to take my son. But his arrogance had made him sloppy. He had grabbed Ethan’s notebook last night after the gala, but he hadn't realized my mother had hidden something inside it before she died.
I looked up at my husband. He was so confident, so sure he had backed me into a corner.
“You think you’ve won,” I said, my voice eerily calm.
“I know I’ve won, Sarah. I hold all the cards.” He stepped aside, gesturing to the door. “Now, get out of my house.”
I didn’t run. I walked past him, my head held high, clutching the notebook and my bag full of letters.
The drive home was a blur of adrenaline. I didn’t cry. The time for tears was over.
When I got to my house, Ethan was sitting at the kitchen island, eating cereal, looking anxious.
“Mom? Dad called the house line. He said you were acting crazy and that I shouldn’t listen to you.”
I walked over, kissed the top of his head, and sat next to him.
“Ethan, listen to me carefully. Dad is a liar. He has taken things from our family, and he is trying to scare me into staying quiet.” I pulled the train ticket from the notebook. “Did Grandma ever tell you about this?”
Ethan looked at the ticket. His eyes widened.
“She told me to put that in the book the day before she went to the hospital,” he whispered. “She said if Dad ever tried to take the music, the ticket would tell me where the real treasure was.”
“Springfield,” I said. “The state capital. The patent office.”
“No,” Ethan shook his head. “Grandma didn’t take the train to Springfield. She told me to look at the numbers on the back.”
I flipped the ticket over.
Written in my mother’s shaky handwriting was a sequence of numbers and letters.
Cook County Registry. File #884-B. Margaret Ellis Trust.
My breath caught in my throat.
Christopher thought he had intercepted the foundation’s paperwork. He thought he had forced her to sign everything over to his company.
But my mother hadn’t just been a sweet old piano teacher. She had known exactly what Christopher was.
She had secretly established a trust.
“Ethan, grab your jacket,” I said, standing up, a fierce, undeniable strength flooding my veins. “We’re going downtown. We’re going to take back everything that belongs to us.”
May you like
As we headed for the door, my phone buzzed. It was a text from an unknown number.
I saw you at the house. Meet me at the foundation. Now. — Vanessa.
