Flynn stared at him.
“What inventory?”
The attorney closed his briefcase.
“That’s what I’m here to help you understand.”
At that exact moment, my phone rang.
It was Flynn.
His voice was no longer arrogant.
“Sloan.”
“Yes?”
“What did your grandfather hide in this house?”
I smiled.
“You’ll have to find out.”
“You knew?”
“Yes.”
“You gave me the house knowing this?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I looked down at my cast.
“Because you and your mother thought you were taking something from me.”
Silence.
Then I said:
“You were actually taking responsibility for something you never understood.”
He began shouting.
I ended the call.
A few minutes later, Phoebe called.
“They found the door.”
“Did they open it?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because the key they need isn’t there.”
I looked at the little brass key in my hand.
“Good.”
Phoebe lowered her voice.
“Sloan, there’s something else.”
“What?”
“Your grandfather left a second letter.”
“To me?”
“Yes.”
“What does it say?”
She hesitated.
“He predicted that someone might try to take the property from you.”
My heart stopped.
“And?”
“He wrote one sentence.”
“What sentence?”
Phoebe read it slowly.
‘If the person who steals the house ever finds the door, give them the key—but only after they have signed everything away.’
I stared at the brass key.
Suddenly, everything made sense.
My grandfather hadn’t built a trap for Flynn.
He had built a test.
And Flynn had already failed it.
The only question left was what would happen when he finally opened that door.
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