Chapter 2 - THE MUSIC CABINET
The Oak Room was situated at the very end of the private residential wing, past the portrait gallery of ancestral Whitlocks. For two years since his mother’s death, Porter Vance had kept the double doors locked with a heavy deadbolt, claiming the room was undergoing mold remediation and structural preservation.
Nobody questioned Porter. Porter was efficient. Porter handled everything.
Graham strode down the hallway, ignoring the startled gasp of a passing maid. He reached the heavy oak doors, pulled the brass key from his pocket, and slid it into the antique lock.
Click.
The lock turned with a satisfying, long-dormant snap.
Graham pushed the doors open. The room smelled of old leather, dried lavender, and cedar wood—the exact scent of his mother’s perfume. Sunlight pierced through the tall, leaded glass windows, cutting across a massive, hand-carved mahogany music cabinet that dominated the far wall.
Footsteps echoed sharply behind him.
“Graham? What in God's name are you doing in here?”
Porter Vance stood in the doorway, impeccably dressed in a charcoal bespoke suit, his wire-rimmed glasses catching the light. Behind him stood Celeste, wrapped in a white cashmere shawl, her face twisted in a mask of haughty irritation.
“Porter,” Graham said without turning around. “How long has the Oak Fund been empty?”
Porter froze. The color drained from his face instantly, though he recovered his corporate composure with practiced ease. He adjusted his glasses and stepped into the room, letting out a patronizing chuckle.
“I have no idea what you’re rambling about, Graham. Are you drinking this early? You look unhinged. Come out of there before you disturb the dust. Celeste and I need to review the tax filings.”
“Don't lie to me,” Graham whispered. He turned slowly, his eyes locked onto Porter’s with a terrifying intensity that made the executive step back. “My mother set up a five-million-dollar hardship fund for the people who actually kept this estate running. For cleaners, cooks, and groundskeepers. Six months ago, Claire Bennett applied for help with her leukemia treatments. You told her the fund didn't exist. You threatened her with state custody of her child if she spoke up.”
Celeste scoffed, tossing her blonde hair over her shoulder. “Oh, please! Are we really taking the word of a thieving cleaning woman over Porter? Graham, she stole your mother’s gold locket! We found it in her locker!”
“No,” Graham said, stepping forward. “You planted it in her locker. Just like you planted those fake invoices in the donation box.”
Porter’s eyes flicked nervously toward the heavy mahogany music cabinet behind Graham. He reached into his jacket pocket.
“You’re making a grave mistake, Graham,” Porter said, his voice turning cold and sharp. “If you pursue this, corporate audits will expose financial irregularities that will tank Whitlock Development’s stock before the end of the week. My name is tied to those accounts, yes—but so is yours. We signed the umbrella authorizations together.”
Graham stopped two feet from Porter. “You forged my signature on the wire transfers to Celeste’s shell charity. I had forensic accountants review the logs an hour ago while you were still asleep.”
May you like
Porter’s expression twisted. The polite facade vanished, replaced by a cornered rat’s desperation. He whipped a small silver pistol out of his jacket holster and aimed it straight at Graham’s chest.
“Then it’s a good thing,” Porter hissed, his thumb clicking off the safety, “that accidents happen in old houses during storms.”
