CHAPTER ONE — THE HOUSE OF SECRETS

Rain had been falling since midnight.

By morning, the old Bellamy estate looked as if it had been cut off from the rest of the world.

The mansion stood alone at the end of a winding country road, surrounded by black trees and iron fences. Its owner, Edmund Bellamy, had spent fifty years building a fortune through hotels, private investments, and rare art.

At seventy-eight, Edmund was still sharp enough to make his family nervous.

His three children knew better than to underestimate him.

Victor, the eldest, ran the family hotel business.

Clara, the only daughter, lived in London and rarely came home.

And Simon, the youngest, had failed at nearly everything he had attempted.

There was also Edmund’s granddaughter, Elena, twenty-nine, who had stayed in the mansion to care for him during his final months.

She was the only person in the family Edmund seemed to trust.

At 8:40 that morning, the housekeeper found Edmund dead in his study.

The door was locked from the inside.

A half-finished cup of tea sat beside his chair.

The windows were closed.

There were no signs of forced entry.

The police called it suspicious almost immediately.

But before they could begin questioning the family, Edmund’s longtime solicitor, Arthur Vale, arrived with a sealed envelope.

“I was instructed to deliver this only after Mr. Bellamy’s death,” he said.

Inside was a handwritten note.

To my family,

You have spent years waiting to discover what you will inherit.

Tonight, you will discover what you have already lost.

Arthur will read my final will at six o’clock.

Until then, no one leaves the house.

Victor slammed his hand against the table.

“This is absurd.”

Arthur calmly looked at him.

“Your father was very specific.”

Simon laughed nervously.

“Typical Dad. Even dead, he wants to control everyone.”

Clara said nothing.

She was staring at Elena.

“Where were you last night?”

Elena’s expression hardened.

“With Grandfather.”

“Until what time?”

“Until he went to bed.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

Before Elena could answer, the grandfather clock in the hallway suddenly stopped.

Six minutes past nine.

Everyone turned.

Arthur looked toward the clock.

“Interesting.”

“What?” Victor asked.

Arthur walked closer.

“Your father told me something yesterday.”

He reached behind the clock and pulled out a small brass key.

“He said that if he died unexpectedly, this key would be the first thing I should find.”

Silence filled the room.

The key had a number engraved on it.

17.

Simon frowned.

“What does that open?”

Arthur shook his head.

“I don’t know.”

Then Elena noticed something.

There was a tiny smear of blue ink on the key.

The same shade of ink Edmund used for his personal letters.

She looked toward the study.

“Someone touched this after Grandfather died.”

Everyone stared at her.

Arthur’s expression changed.

“Why would you say that?”

“Because the ink is still wet.”

Nobody moved.

Then, from upstairs, came the sound of something crashing.

Everyone rushed toward the staircase.

At the top landing, Clara stopped.

The door to Edmund’s private archive was open.

It had been locked for more than twenty years.

Inside, hundreds of documents had been scattered across the floor.

And on the desk sat a single photograph.

It showed Edmund standing beside three people.

Victor.

Clara.

Simon.

But Elena recognized the fourth person immediately.

Her mother.

A woman Edmund had always claimed he had never known.

On the back of the photograph, someone had written:

THE FOURTH CHILD WAS NEVER SUPPOSED TO BE FOUND.