To Be Opened Only If
"He knew," Roman said. "He knew this whole time and he never said anything to us."
"He knew for eleven years," Constance said quietly. "What he did six weeks before he died was try, finally, to fix it properly. New correction, new date, meant to close the gap for good." She turned the page over as if the back might explain the front. "But a filing like this needs a witness signature to be worth anything in front of a court. And it's not here."
"Then where is it," Thalia said.
"I don't know. He asked me to hold the box, not the pen he used to finish it."
Odessa thought of the study at home — the fireproof safe, the folder marked in his handwriting, the empty space where a certificate should have been. If Aldric had been quietly trying to repair a twenty-year-old mistake in his last weeks, he hadn't done it carelessly. He'd have kept a trail.
They went back to Cedar Lane that night, all three of them, and searched the study properly for the first time since the funeral — not for memories this time, but for evidence.
It was Thalia who found it, in the false bottom of the second desk drawer their father had never once believed was a secret from anyone in this family.
A sealed envelope. Cream paper, Aldric's handwriting on the front, steadier than she expected for a man who'd been sick when he wrote it.
To be opened only if Garrick contests.
"He knew," Thalia said, staring at it. "He knew Garrick would try this. He was ready for it before any of us even understood there was something to be ready for."
Roman reached for the envelope. Odessa stopped his hand.
"Wait," she said. "If he prepared for this exactly, then whatever's inside was meant to be enough on its own. Which means the missing signature page isn't a mistake he left behind."
"Then what is it," Roman said.
Odessa was already looking toward the hallway, toward the guest room Garrick had stayed in twice during his brother's last month of visits neither of them had questioned at the time.
"I think it's something somebody took."