Chapter 3 - The Sealed Files
As soon as Thomas's car disappeared down the long winding driveway, the mansion took on an eerie quiet. David immediately headed toward the lower hallway, but as expected, the door to Catherine's former room was locked solid. The digital display on the handle glowed a steady, uncompromising red.
"It requires a fingerprint or an admin passcode," David growled, punching the keypad in frustration. "He completely changed the lock system yesterday. Even my master key doesn't work."
"David, calm down," I urged. "If we force the lock digitally, the house system will send an automated security breach alert straight to Thomas's phone."
"So what do we do? Just sit here while he hides an eighteen-year-old girl in my mother's deathbed?" David's voice cracked with emotion. "You saw her eyes yesterday, Nancy. She didn't look like a greedy gold-digger. She looked like a prisoner."
"I know," I said softly. "And that's why we need to be smart."
I went straight to Thomas's home study. As CFO, I knew that while Thomas was meticulous with digital security, he was old-fashioned when it came to his physical records. He always kept duplicate physical paper files for his most critical assets.
The study was lined with mahogany bookshelves and smelled of old leather and tobacco. Behind the portrait of the company's first office building sat a small fireproof safe. I knew the combination—it was the date Thomas and Catherine founded Turner Smart Tech thirty years ago.
I dialed the numbers carefully: 0-9-1-5-9-4.
The heavy door gave a soft click and swung open.
Inside, among the property deeds and corporate stocks, was a thick manila folder marked with a bright red stamp: CONFIDENTIAL - LEGAL GUARDIANSHIP & PROTECTIVE CUSTODY.
My heart slammed against my ribs. I pulled the folder out and laid it flat on the large oak desk. David stood over my shoulder, breathing heavily.
I opened the folder. The first thing that fell out was an official birth certificate.
"Lily Collins," I read aloud. "Date of birth... August 12, 2008."
"She just turned eighteen last week," David murmured.
I turned the page, and both David and I gasped.
Attached to the legal documents were several high-resolution medical photos. They showed a young woman's arm severely bruised, with deep lacerations around her wrists—unmistakable restraint marks. There were hospital records from a private clinic in Oregon, detailing severe malnutrition, trauma, and systemic poisoning from unprescribed sedatives.
"What is this?" David gasped, his hand shaking as he pointed to the medical diagnosis. "Poisoning?"
I flipped to the legal deposition at the back of the file. It was signed by a private investigator hired by Thomas three months ago.
The report read: Subject: Lily Collins. Biological daughter of the late Julian Collins (former lead software architect at Turner Smart Tech). Following Julian Collins's suspicious death in 2024, subject was placed under the informal guardianship of her uncle, Arthur Collins. Evidence indicates subject was held against her will, subjected to forced medical sedation, and coerced into signing away her late father's patents and company shares.
"Julian Collins?" David repeated, his voice barely a whisper. "I remember him! He was Dad's chief engineer twenty years ago. He helped Dad design the core encryption algorithms for our smart locks! He died in a car accident two years ago!"
"Look at the next page, David," I said, my blood running cold.
The next document was a transfer of intellectual property rights. Julian Collins had owned a 15% foundational patent stake in Turner Smart Tech's primary encryption system. Upon his death, those rights were meant to pass directly to his only child, Lily.
If Lily died or was declared mentally incompetent before her eighteenth birthday, those patents and their multi-billion-dollar royalties would automatically default to her legal guardian—or to the secondary beneficiary listed in the trust contract.
I turned the page to look at the secondary beneficiary's name.
The page had been cleanly ripped out.
"Someone tore it," I whispered.
At that moment, the thunder roared outside, shaking the large glass windows of the study. Downstairs, a loud, sharp knocking echoed through the grand foyer.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
It wasn't the electronic chime of the front gate. Someone was standing directly at the front entrance of the mansion.
David and I exchanged a terrified glance. I quickly jammed the manila folder back into the safe, locked it, and restored the portrait.
We ran down the hallway toward the foyer. Standing outside the glass doors, drenched in the heavy rain, were two men in dark suits. One of them was tall, with a scar running down his left jawline. Through the rain-slicked glass, he held up a laminated badge toward the security camera.
It was a private security badge from a firm based out of Oregon.
Martha was standing in the kitchen, trembling. "Nancy, they’ve been ringing the outer gate for ten minutes. They somehow bypassed the electronic fence!"
David stepped up to the video intercom system and pressed the button. "Who are you, and what are you doing on private property?"
The man with the scar stepped closer to the microphone. His voice was cold, metallic, and devoid of emotion.
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"We are looking for Lily Collins. She was removed illegally from a medical facility in Portland. We have a court-ordered recovery warrant issued to her legal guardian, Mr. Arthur Collins."
David looked at me, his eyes wide with horror. "They're here for her."
