I opened it.
Inside was a letter and a key.
Not a house key.
A tiny brass safety-deposit key.
The letter was short.
Sloan,
If Flynn Vale has accepted Bellweather, then either I was wrong about him or you finally discovered I was right.
Phoebe will show you the Vale file.
I wish there had been another way.
There usually isn’t.
E.M.
I looked up.
“What file?”
Phoebe opened a cabinet.
Then she placed a thick gray folder in front of me.
The label read:
VALE / MERCER — 1998–PRESENT
My hands went cold.
“What is this?”
Phoebe looked almost sad.
“The reason your grandfather never trusted your husband’s family.”
Twenty-eight years earlier, Flynn’s father, Malcolm Vale, had approached my grandfather seeking investors for a private real-estate fund.
Malcolm had charm.
Connections.
Expensive suits.
And almost no money of his own.
Grandfather declined.
Several other investors didn’t.
