Chapter 23 - Bianca at the Gates
Bianca arrived at Craigiehall Cottage at four-twelve that afternoon.
She came openly.
No disguise.
No weapon.
No attempt to hide.
She simply walked up the long gravel drive beneath a cold gray sky while two police vehicles watched her approach.
I stood inside the front hall with Logan beside me.
Lily and Noah were upstairs under Fiona’s strict instructions.
Bianca stopped twenty feet from the front door.
Three years in federal prison had changed her.
The glossy blond hair was darker now, cut bluntly at her shoulders. Her expensive designer clothes had been replaced by black jeans, walking boots, and a plain camel coat.
She looked older.
But not broken.
That was what unsettled me.
She carried herself like someone who had finally stopped pretending.
Inspector Grant stepped outside.
“Bianca Vance?”
“Yes.”
“You are required to remain where you are.”
“I know.”
“Why are you here?”
Bianca looked past her.
Directly at me.
“I need five minutes with Claire.”
“No.”
That came from Logan.
Bianca almost smiled.
“You must be Logan.”
“You must leave.”
“I will.”
She raised a small flash drive between two fingers.
“After Claire sees this.”
Fiona took the drive.
Thirty minutes later, we watched its contents on an isolated police laptop.
The first video showed Harrison Vance inside a warehouse.
He was thinner than Arthur.
Wild-eyed.
Gray-haired.
Surrounded by maps, photocopies, legal documents, and photographs.
Photographs of me.
Logan.
Lily.
Noah.
The second video was worse.
Harrison stood before a wall-sized map of central Scotland.
Red pins marked Craigiehall Cottage.
Logan’s foundry.
Linlithgow Palace.
Alistair’s law office.
The Bank of Scotland.
“He recorded those about three weeks ago,” Bianca said from the other side of the room.
Police had permitted her inside under supervision.
I stared at her.
“How did you get them?”
“I stole his laptop.”
“Why?”
She looked at me like the answer should have been obvious.
“Because he’s insane.”
“And you suddenly care?”
“No.”
At least she didn’t lie.
“I care about staying out of prison.”
Bianca sat straighter.
“Harrison contacted me after my release. He said there was money hidden in the old partnership. Tens of millions. Maybe more. He promised me enough to start over if I helped him recover the Scottish ledger.”
“You agreed.”
“For two weeks.”
She looked down.
“Then he showed me the photographs of your children.”
My voice went cold.
“And?”
“And I realized he wasn’t talking about blackmail.”
No one moved.
Bianca’s fingers tightened around the edge of her chair.
“He said children were pressure points.”
Logan stepped forward.
Fiona blocked him with one arm.
Bianca flinched.
“I know what I did to your family,” she said quickly. “I know I don’t deserve anything from you. But I never wanted children hurt.”
“You helped steal from them.”
“Yes.”
“You helped humiliate them.”
“Yes.”
“You stood in my dining room pretending to carry their father’s child.”
Her face twisted.
“Yes.”
“Then don’t ask me to admire your conscience.”
“I’m not.”
For the first time, Bianca’s voice cracked.
“I’m asking you to believe my fear.”
That stopped me.
Because fear was something I understood.
She gave Fiona another item.
A key.
Brass.
Old.
Stamped with the Craig family foundry mark.
Logan picked it up.
His face changed.
“This is my grandfather’s workshop seal.”
Bianca nodded.
“Harrison found it among Arthur’s old files. There was a receipt attached. Douglas Ashford paid Angus Craig for a private commission in 1983.”
“What commission?”
“A secure iron archive box.”
Logan whispered something under his breath.
I looked at him.
“What?”
He stared at the key.
“My grandfather’s sealed storeroom.”
The Craig foundry had one room Logan had never opened.
A narrow stone vault beneath the oldest part of the building.
His father had always said it contained dangerous obsolete casting equipment.
The original key had vanished after Angus Craig died.
Until now.
Fiona immediately ordered officers to secure the foundry.
We drove there in convoy.
The sun was setting when Logan inserted the old brass key into the iron door.
It turned.
The lock released with a deep mechanical click.
Inside stood shelves covered in dust.
Wooden molds.
Rolled architectural plans.
Rusting tools.
And against the far wall, beneath a canvas sheet, sat a black iron chest.
A brass plate was fixed to the lid.
**D.A.**
Douglas Ashford.
My grandfather.
Logan approached slowly.
Then stopped.
The chest was open.
Empty.
On the dusty floor beside it was a fresh footprint.
And written across the wall in black marker were six words.
May you like
**THANK YOU FOR FINDING IT FOR ME.**
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