The Son-in-Law Contract

THE DOOR THAT DOESN’T OPEN

“Great,” I muttered, rattling the handle again. It didn’t budge. “He locked us in.”

Lila’s voice was barely a whisper. “He doesn’t usually come down here.”

“Yeah? Guess I’m an exception.”

The air was colder below ground, thick with the scent of old stone and smoke. My flashlight beam trembled against the walls, catching faint shapes — boxes stacked along the edges, shelves lined with framed photos, and something that looked too much like an altar.

Lila stood a few steps away, her arms wrapped around herself. “You shouldn’t have followed me.”

I aimed the light at her face, and she flinched. “You knew this was here. You led me straight to it.”

Her chin lifted in quiet defiance. “I didn’t lead you anywhere. You were already following the ghosts.”

“Don’t twist it,” I said. “You knew my mother. You knew what happened to her.”

Her eyes softened. “I only know what they let me know. The rest… they buried.”

I stepped closer, the floor creaking under my boots. “Then help me dig.”

She exhaled, shaking her head. “You think I haven’t tried? You think I haven’t looked for answers my whole life? This house keeps secrets better than people do.”

Her voice cracked a little on the last word. It was the first time I’d seen her slip — the steel in her tone bending just enough to show there was someone fragile beneath.

“Lila,” I said quietly, “what is this place?”

Her gaze flicked toward the far wall. “The archives. My grandfather started keeping records here before my father was born. Financial documents, letters, donations — everything that made the Ardmore family look respectable.”

I scanned the rows of boxes, my flashlight cutting through dust and cobwebs. “And the things that didn’t make you look respectable?”

“They burned those,” she said. “Or so they claimed.”

We searched in silence. The boxes were labeled in neat handwriting, decade by decade. 1995. 1996. 1997. The year my mother disappeared.

I reached for it. The cardboard flaked beneath my fingers as I lifted the lid. Inside were stacks of correspondence — invitations, receipts, a few photos. Near the bottom, I found an envelope that didn’t match the rest. Thicker paper. My mother’s handwriting.

Helena Mercer — Confidential.

I looked up. “Lila.”

She moved closer, curiosity and fear warring in her eyes. “You shouldn’t—”

But I’d already opened it. Inside was a single sheet. The ink was smudged, but I could still read the words.

If something happens to me, don’t trust Thomas Ardmore. The money isn’t his. The trust is a cover. Someone’s laundering through the estate. I found proof — it’s in the piano.

The letter stopped mid-sentence, like she’d been interrupted.

My chest tightened. “She knew,” I said, gripping the paper. “She knew what they were doing.”

Lila’s face had gone pale. “My father’s not capable of—”

“Stop,” I snapped. “You’ve seen what he’s capable of. You’re just too scared to admit it.”

She looked away. Her silence was an answer.

Upstairs, the floorboards creaked. Muffled voices. Then footsteps again, pacing — slower this time.

“Someone’s up there,” Lila whispered.

“Stay back,” I said, switching off the flashlight. We stood in darkness, only the faint glow from a small barred window cutting across her face.

The lock above clicked. A key turned, and a sliver of light spilled through the crack in the door. But instead of opening, the footsteps retreated.

“They’re making sure we stay in,” she murmured.

I waited a beat. “You trust me?”

She hesitated, then nodded once.

“Good,” I said. “Because I’m getting us out.”

I climbed the stairs and slammed my shoulder into the door. The hinges groaned but held. I tried again, harder this time. Lila joined me, pushing with both hands until the old wood splintered at the edges.

“Again,” she said through gritted teeth.

We hit it together, and the lock gave with a sharp crack. The door swung open, and we stumbled into the hall, breathless.

The house was silent. Too silent.

It looked different now — dimmer, emptier. The portraits that lined the corridor seemed to stare harder than before, as if they’d watched everything unfold.

“Where’s your father?” I asked.

“In his study,” she said. “Always in his study after a storm.”

I almost laughed. “Convenient.”

We moved quietly through the hall, passing the piano room. It was covered with a new tarp, the smell of burnt lacquer still hanging in the air. I could almost hear the crackle of flames again.

Lila slowed at the doorway. “You said the letter mentioned proof.”

“Yeah,” I said. “In the piano. But the ledger’s gone.”

Her gaze flicked toward the covered instrument. “What if it isn’t?”

Before I could stop her, she pulled the tarp away and lifted the lid. The keys were blackened, cracked. She reached inside the cavity, feeling beneath the strings.

A faint metallic sound — then she froze.

“Julian,” she whispered. “There’s something here.”

She pulled out a small lockbox, half-melted but intact. I took it from her, shaking off the soot. The initials H.M. were carved into the corner.

Lila’s hands trembled. “That’s your mother’s.”

“Yeah,” I said. “And this time, no one’s burning it.”

We took it to my room, locking the door behind us. The box was sealed with an old brass clasp. I grabbed a screwdriver from the drawer and forced it open.

Inside was a collection of old receipts, a silver locket, and a stack of documents. At the top was a certificate — The Ardmore Heritage Trust, 1998.

Lila leaned over my shoulder, reading the fine print. “This isn’t a grant. It’s a shell corporation.”

“And it’s got your father’s signature on every page,” I said. “Along with mine — or rather, my mother’s.”

Her voice was faint. “She must’ve been handling transactions under her name.”

“For him,” I said bitterly. “Until she found out what he was doing.”

Lila stepped back, pacing. “Julian… this could destroy my family.”

“Your family destroyed mine.”

Her eyes met mine — hurt, angry, but also guilty. “You don’t know everything.”

“Then tell me,” I said. “Stop protecting him.”

She swallowed hard. “You think it’s easy? That man built everything we have. He raised me alone after my mother died. He’s all I’ve ever known.”

“Then maybe it’s time you know who he really is.”

Her lips parted, but before she could answer, the door handle turned.

We both froze.

The door opened slowly, and Mr. Ardmore stepped in, his silhouette framed by the hallway light. His expression was calm — too calm.

“I thought I might find you here,” he said, eyes flicking to the open box on the bed.

Lila’s voice shook. “Father—”

He held up a hand. “Enough, Lila.” Then his gaze locked on me. “You’ve been very busy for a man who was paid to keep quiet.”

“I was paid to pretend,” I said. “Not to watch someone else’s lies bury my mother.”

He smiled faintly, a chilling kind of amusement. “Your mother was a clever woman. Too clever. She thought she could expose me. But she underestimated how deep this family runs.”

Lila took a step forward, voice trembling. “You—what did you do to her?”

His jaw tightened. “I did what was necessary to protect what’s ours.”

The words hit like a fist.

I lunged before I could think, grabbing him by the collar, shoving him against the wall. “You killed her.”

He didn’t fight back. He just looked at me with that same icy calm. “And now you’ve walked into the same trap she did.”

Lila’s voice broke through the tension. “Julian, stop!”

I released him, chest heaving. “You’re going to tell me everything.”

He adjusted his jacket like nothing had happened. “I already have. You just don’t want to believe how alike we are.”

That stopped me cold.

“I built this empire from nothing,” he continued. “I used what I had — charm, deceit, control. The same things you’ve used to crawl your way into my house.”

Lila’s face twisted in disbelief. “You’re insane.”

“No,” he said softly. “I’m pragmatic. And so is he.” He looked at me again. “But if you want to know the truth about Helena Mercer, you’ll find it where she fell.”

He turned and walked out, leaving the door open.

Lila sank onto the bed, her voice small. “He’s lying.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But maybe he just told us where to start.”

“Where she fell?”

“The fire,” I said. “He mentioned a fire before. Maybe she didn’t just disappear. Maybe it happened here.”

She looked at me, fear flickering behind her eyes. “You’re saying she died on this property.”

“I’m saying someone made sure of it.”

The silence stretched until she finally whispered, “Then we dig.”

~~ ~

We spent the rest of the night searching old records, blueprints, and renovation files from the trust documents. Around three a.m., Lila found something — a floor plan of the original estate, before the east wing was rebuilt.

“There,” she said, pointing. “An unmarked cellar under the piano room. It was sealed after a fire twenty years ago.”

My heart hammered. “That’s where she fell.”

Lila nodded, gripping the paper. “Then that’s where we go.”

The night outside was thick with fog, and the house felt like it was holding its breath. As we descended the stairs once more, the scent of smoke returned — faint but unmistakable.

And in that moment, I knew this wasn’t just about my mother anymore.

Whatever was buried here — whoever had burned the truth — was about to be unearthed.

And this time, I wasn’t running.