Chapter 3 - Shadows in the Guest House
By 6:00 a.m., I had left instructions with Dr. Vance to ensure Irene was heavily guarded, with strict orders that no visitors—not even family—were to be admitted without my explicit written consent.
I drove back to the estate in the sleet, my mind burning with a cold, focused rage. The police had already executed a search warrant on the main house and the guest house where my mother and sister had been staying.
When I pulled through the wrought-iron gates of Paradise Valley, two squad cars were still parked on the gravel drive. Detective Miller, a tall man with piercing blue eyes and an unlit cigar perpetually clamped between his teeth, was standing near the front porch, reviewing a stack of evidence bags.
“Mr. Wentworth,” Miller called out as I stepped out of my car. “Glad you’re back. We found some very interesting things in your mother’s quarters.”
“Tell me,” I said sharply, walking up the steps.
“Well, the suitcase your sister was packing wasn't just filled with your gold and legal deeds,” Miller said, gesturing for me to follow him toward the guest house. “We found a safe-deposit box key from a Swiss bank in Zurich, registered under a shell corporation named Whitmore & Wentworth Holdings. More importantly, we found this.”
Miller pushed open the door to the guest house. The place smelled of lavender potpourri and expensive face cream. On the oak writing desk sat an open laptop, its screen glowing with financial spreadsheets.
“That’s my corporate portfolio,” I muttered, walking over.
“Not anymore,” Miller corrected, tapping the screen. “Or at least, it wouldn't have been by tomorrow afternoon. Look at the transfer authorizations, Mr. Wentworth. Your mother and sister weren't just robbing your safe. They were executing a total corporate and domestic hostile takeover.”
I leaned over the desk. My eyes scanned the documents.
For the past three years, ever since my father passed away and left me controlling stake in Wentworth Global Logistics, my mother had been acting as an unofficial consultant, reviewing board documents and helping me manage family real estate trusts. But using forged power-of-attorney signatures—signed during my father’s terminal illness when I was too grief-stricken to read every line—she had quietly transferred forty percent of my voting shares into a private trust controlled jointly by her and Carla.
And the remaining sixty percent?
It was contingent upon a very specific clause in my father’s original will: If Austin Wentworth dies without a direct legal heir, or if his marriage is dissolved due to spousal abandonment or mental incapacity, the entire estate reverts to the primary family trustee—Margaret Wentworth.
The pieces clicked together with the terrifying precision of a guillotine.
They hadn't just wanted the gold in the safe. They wanted everything. And to get it, they needed Irene out of the picture, the unborn child erased, and me legally isolated or broken.
“They planned the whole thing,” I whispered, my fists clenching so hard my nails dug into my palms.
“Oh, it gets better,” Detective Miller said, pulling a small, encrypted flash drive from his pocket. “We found this hidden inside the lining of your mother’s vanity case. We haven't decrypted the main files yet, but our cyber-crime unit ran a preliminary header scan. Mr. Wentworth... this drive contains recorded audio and video files of your home dating back over two years.”
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I froze. “Cameras?”
“Hidden pinhole lenses in every room of your main house,” Miller nodded grimly. “They didn't just watch you. They studied your habits, your flight schedules, your vulnerabilities. They knew when you were flying to London, when you were stuck in Chicago traffic, and how to manipulate every single interaction between you and your wife.”
