Chapter 3 - The Secret Archive of Oakhaven
The basement of Oakhaven was not a dank, unfinished cellar filled with old wine racks and dustbins. It was a subterranean wing hidden behind a heavy, fireproof vault door concealed within the faux-wood paneling of the mansion’s walk-in library.
Toby led us down the winding concrete stairs, his small flashlight cutting a narrow beam through the absolute blackness. Conrad followed close behind us, stumbling once on the steep steps, muttering curses under his breath while sweat beaded heavily along his hairline.
When we reached the bottom, Toby clicked a brass wall switch. A row of harsh fluorescent tubes overhead flickered to life, buzzing angrily before illuminating a sprawling, windowless room that smelled of old paper, vinegar, and chemical decay.
Unlike the rest of the mansion—which was decorated in exorbitant silks, crystal chandeliers, and polished mahogany—this room was purely functional. Metal filing cabinets stretched as far as the eye could see. Corkboards covered in newspaper clippings, medical charts, property deeds, and glossy photographs lined the concrete walls.
It was a war room. Or better yet, a House of Corrections.
“What is this place?” I whispered, my eyes scanning the nearest corkboard. It was plastered with police reports, birth certificates, and financial wire receipts dating back over twenty years.
“It’s Grandma’s collection,” Toby said quietly, walking toward a metal desk in the center of the room. He placed the heavy leather-bound scrapbook down on the surface and flipped it open to a marked page. “Whenever someone in the family tried to leave, or talk to the police, or ask too many questions about how the Wheeler fortune was actually made... Grandma put them in here.”
I stepped forward and looked down at the open page.
It was a medical certificate from St. Jude’s Hospital, dated twelve years ago. The patient name was Elena Vance—no, wait, Elena Wheeler. Conrad’s late sister? No, the dates didn't align.
“Clara,” Conrad muttered, his voice barely audible as he stared at the floor, unable to look at the desk. “Her name was Clara. My... my older sister.”
“Your sister?” I looked up at him, my blood running cold. “In the official family bios released to the press, the Wheelers only had one child: you. There was never any mention of a sister.”
“Because she didn't exist as far as society was concerned,” Conrad said, his voice hollow, stripped of all arrogance. He walked over to the desk, his fingers trembling as they brushed the edge of the leather book. “Clara was... difficult. According to Mother, she lacked the ‘Throne fortitude’—or in Clara’s case, the Wheeler ruthlessness. She wanted to give up our stake in the municipal water contracts after the safety scandals broke back in 2010. She threatened to go to the papers with internal safety memos.”
“And what happened to her?” I asked, though my stomach already knew the horrifying answer.
Toby pointed a small, trembling finger at a framed photograph hanging on the far wall behind the desk. It showed a young woman with dark, expressive eyes that looked remarkably like Toby’s, smiling awkwardly in a graduation gown.
“Grandma said she ran away to Europe with a married man and died in a car crash two years later,” Toby recited, his voice completely flat, devoid of emotion as if he had memorized a script beaten into him. “She told me that every time I asked about my mom, or whenever I looked too much like my mom. But I found her diary behind the floorboards in the attic last month. Mom didn't run away. Grandma locked her in the east wing guest suite for four years until her kidneys failed from the stress and lack of medical care. And Dad... Dad helped sign the commitment papers.”
I spun around to face Conrad, the air knocked entirely out of my lungs.
“Is that true?” I demanded, grabbing the lapel of his tuxedo jacket. “You locked your own sister in a room until she died? You let your mother murder her by inches?”
Conrad didn't pull away. He didn't defend himself. He let his head drop against my shoulder, a dry, choked sob escaping his throat.
“Mother convinced us it was for the family’s survival,” he whispered, his tears dampening the silk of my blouse. “She said if Clara exposed the substandard concrete we used in the public housing projects, the entire company would face criminal indictments. Hundreds of jobs lost. Bankruptcy. Prison for all of us. She made it sound like an act of mercy... locking her away so the rest of us could survive.”
“And my mother?” Toby asked, his voice rising, sharp and piercing in the echoing concrete room. “Was it an act of mercy when Grandma locked my mother in the guest house too? Just because she tried to pack my bags and take me out of this house before I turned five?”
Before Conrad could answer, the heavy steel vault door at the top of the stairs swung open with a resounding, metallic crash.
May you like
A sharp, familiar voice echoed down the concrete stairwell, laced with absolute venom.
“Well, well,” Helen Wheeler’s voice rang out, cold and mocking. “It seems the trash has decided to explore the basement before I even had the chance to sweep it out. Up the stairs, all of you. Now.”
