Chapter 94 - The Vanishing Heir
The name hung in the freezing air of the parlor like a toxic vapor. Julian Van Der Bilt was the phantom of our childhood—the brother whose existence was spoken of only in hushed, terrifying whispers whenever Evelyn became too hysterical or our grandfather locked himself in the study with a decanter of bourbon. The official story, recorded in parish registers and town archives fifty years prior, was that Julian had slipped into the ice-swollen weir during the spring melt of 1974. His body was never recovered from the Saint-Laurent rapids.
"Arthur didn't just lie," I said, cold realization washing over me as I connected the scattered pieces of the puzzle we had uncovered over the past weeks. "He erased him. That’s why the trust from 1974 had that missing rider. That’s why Evelyn was so desperate to secure every acre before the codicil could be unsealed."
"If Julian is alive," Vance said grimly, lowering his weapon slightly as he examined the baseboards near the grandfather clock, "then Evelyn was never the sole executor. The entirety of the Oak Ridge holdings, the timber covenants, the trust accounts in Albany and Montreal—none of it belonged to her or Melissa. It belonged to the firstborn son."
"Which means Melissa’s boys had no right to anything," Clara said, her voice trembling with an equal mixture of fury and shock. "All that talk about the family legacy, all the vicious attacks on Lily, the sneers about who truly owned this land... it was built on an outright fraud. Melissa wasn't protecting her children’s inheritance. She was guarding stolen property that belonged to a brother she helped bury alive."
Before Vance could respond, the static on his shoulder radio erupted into a high-pitched, screeching whistle. He reached up, pressing the transceiver against his collar, trying to break through the interference. "Dispatch, this is Vance. I need immediate units back to the main house at Oak Ridge. We have a confirmed trespasser and possible intruder inside the residence. Over."
Nothing answered but the hollow, rhythmic hiss of dead air, followed by a voice that did not belong to the state police.
"The radio towers are down at the ridge line, Officer Vance," a raspy, gravel-laden voice crackled through the speaker, low and chillingly intimate. "You won't get through to the substation. You brought the wolves to the door, but you forgot who owned the forest."
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The radio clicked off with a sharp pop.
A split second later, the deep, groaning vibration of moving timber resonated beneath our feet. The ancient oak floorboards shivered, and from somewhere deep below the floor of the parlor, the sound of an iron gate swinging shut echoed through the heating registers.
