Chapter 4 - The Ghost in the Foundation
The presidential gala ended past midnight, but sleep was the last thing on my mind. Instead of returning to my quarters at Fort Myer, I drove out to Arlington and parked near the old brick colonial house where I had grown up—the estate my mother had left to me before Arthur had her memory legally scrubbed from the family's corporate foundation, and before he forced me out.
The iron gates were locked, but the side service entrance had always possessed a loose latch. Out of habit more than nostalgia, I pushed it open and walked up the gravel path.
The house was dark, save for a faint amber glow coming from the second-floor library.
I didn't use the front doorbell. I climbed the exterior trellis—the exact same route I used to sneak back in after late-night ROTC drills when I was eighteen—and slipped through the unlocked balcony French doors.
Inside, the library smelled of old leather and expensive bourbon. Sitting at my mother’s old mahogany desk was Trevor.
He jumped violently as I stepped out of the shadow of the velvet drapes, nearly dropping a heavy leather-bound ledger into the wastebasket. His eyes went wide with sheer terror.
"Kate?" he stammered, scrambling to his feet. "What—what are you doing here? This is private property! I'll call security—call the police!"
"Go ahead," I said, stepping into the pool of desk lamp light. "Tell the Capitol Police that your sister, an active-duty Army Colonel with White House clearance, broke into her childhood home. Let's see how fast Arthur's legal team spins that headline."
Trevor swallowed hard, his hands trembling as he instinctively shoved the leather ledger further under a stack of corporate tax filings. "You have no right to be here. Dad disowned you. You gave up all claims to this house, to the company, to everything."
"I gave up Arthur's money, Trevor. I never gave up my mother's home," I replied, my eyes locking onto the book he was trying to hide. I walked slowly toward the desk, every step measured and deliberate. "What are you hiding in that ledger, little brother? Is it the reason Arthur was sweating through his tuxedo tonight?"
"Nothing! It's just routine Mercer Tech quarterly audits," Trevor snapped defensively, backing away until his thighs hit the edge of the bookshelf.
"Arthur doesn't keep handwritten ledgers in mother's private desk for quarterly audits," I said coldly. I reached out, grabbed the edge of the leather book, and pulled it free despite Trevor's weak attempt to hold onto it.
I flipped open the cover. The first page wasn't corporate finance. It was a series of handwritten financial transfers dating back twenty-six years—starting the exact week I left for the military.
May you like
And right at the top of the ledger, written in my father's sharp, aggressive handwriting, was a name I hadn't heard or thought about in decades: Project Vanguard — S. Vance.
---
