Chapter 1: The Locked Room’s Secret

The day my adoptive father died, I found out my brother’s secret.

The air in the house was thick, heavy with the sharp scent of lilies—maybe Stargazers, the kind you see at fancy New England funerals—and a slick undercurrent of lemon Pledge, the way old cherrywood always smells in homes where money’s been around for generations. That smell clung to everything, to secrets that felt older than the paneling. Even now, just thinking about it, my heart slams against my ribs—fast, messy, like I can’t get enough air. For a second, all I can see is my father’s hand on my shoulder, and I flinch before I can stop myself.

The room he always kept locked was crammed with photos of me—photos that made my skin crawl, photos I never knew existed.

Some were candid, some were blurry, some so close I could count every freckle on my cheeks. There were snapshots from birthday parties, school plays, even one of me passed out on the couch, mouth open, a blanket half-sliding to the floor. That one stopped me cold—mouth open, blanket slipping, helpless. I felt the weight of all those silent witnesses pressing in on me, my life mapped out in stolen moments. How many did he have? Why didn’t I know?

I panicked. I ran straight to my childhood friend, desperate for help. He didn’t even flinch—just locked the door behind me, trapping me inside. He grinned, all teeth: “Looks like the mouse walked right into the cat’s den.”

His words hit me like a bucket of ice water. My breath caught. I couldn’t move. The kind of fear that roots you in place, even when every instinct screams, Run. That was when I realized the world I thought I knew had tilted, and nothing would ever be the same.

The day my adoptive father died, I wasn’t even sad.

Maybe I should’ve been. But what I felt most was relief. The tightness in my chest eased, and for the first time in years, I could breathe—no one watching every move, no eyes boring into the back of my head.

That afternoon, the lawyer came to read the will. Nathaniel Brooks, my adoptive father’s biological son, got all the shares. Me? I was the adopted daughter, the afterthought. I got a trust fund and a bunch of properties.

The reading happened in the Brooks family’s study—real American old money: walnut panels, shelves of first editions, a pair of battered leather club chairs that creaked if you so much as breathed. The lawyer’s voice droned on. My mind wandered. The only time I snapped back was when I caught Nathaniel’s eye—he looked away so fast, it was like I was invisible.

My adoptive father was loaded. The trust fund alone meant I could live like a queen for three lifetimes.

Honestly, I’d never even seen half the properties with my name on them. There was a lake house up in Vermont, a Manhattan penthouse, a Malibu beach condo. The numbers were so big they felt fake—like Monopoly money, except this was all real.

I wasn’t complaining.

I never wanted much. I just needed enough to feel safe, to know I’d never end up on the street again.

I glanced at Nathaniel, keeping my face blank. He was buttoning his cuffs, eyes down, impossible to read. Everything about him screamed old-school charm, but there was something I couldn’t pin down—something that put me on edge.

He always dressed like he’d stepped out of a GQ spread—tailored suit, cufflinks that probably cost more than my car, hair never out of place. But there was always something off, a tightness in his shoulders that set me on edge.

Once the lawyer finished, Nathaniel looked up and asked, all calm, “Ellie, is there anything you’re unhappy about?”

His voice was so smooth, so polite, I almost forgot who I was talking to. The room went dead quiet, every eye on me, the air prickling with tension.