Rain hammered against Pike Street like a thousand small fists when I pushed open the front door of the house I’d grown up in.
The hallway light was on—warm, golden, familiar.
But the scene waiting for me wasn’t familiar at all.
Michael Hart stood in the center of the living room, one foot planted on a stack of papers. Not just any papers. I recognized the worn blue folder immediately.
My father’s will.
He smiled when he saw me. Slow. Sharp. Wrong.
“Emily,” he drawled, nudging the folder with his shoe as if he were grinding a cigarette into the floor. “Back so soon? I was just… organizing.”
My umbrella slipped from my fingers. Rainwater pooled at my feet, soaking into the carpet. My throat tightened. “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like?” He lifted his foot. The first page—creased, stained, familiar—stared up at me like an open wound. “Cleaning up your father’s mess.”
The words hit harder than the storm outside.
Something about the way he said “your father” instead of “our father” twisted my stomach. Something colder lurked under his tone. Something calculated.
“You have no right to touch that,” I snapped, pushing past him and kneeling to gather the scattered pages.
His hand landed on my shoulder—light, almost gentle. But every instinct screamed danger.
“You want to know how he died, don’t you?” His voice dipped, the softness evaporating. “Don’t you ever wonder why it happened so quickly? Why no one could explain where he was, who he met, what he said in his last hours?”
My heart lurched. “Stop.”
But Michael didn’t stop.
He knelt beside me, too close, his breath brushing my ear. “Do you want to know what I did that night?”
The room spun. I pulled away from him, clutching the papers to my chest.
He laughed under his breath. “Relax. I didn’t touch him. Much.”
My pulse slammed against my ribs. “You’re sick.”
“Maybe.” His eyes gleamed. “But I’m also the only one in this house who actually knows how things work. Your father…” He tilted his head, watching me the way a wolf might study a deer. “He hid things from you, princess. Things I had to clean up after.”
The air went thin. My father? Hiding things?
No. He wouldn’t.
Would he?
I forced myself to stand, even though my knees wobbled. “Give me the will. Now.”
Michael stood too, amusement flickering across his face. “What for? You think anything in there will matter? I already talked to his lawyer.” His smile widened. “Let’s say… you won’t like the updates.”
“What updates?” My voice shook.
He stepped closer. “Sign a few harmless papers, stay out of my way, and you won’t have to find out.”
The rage flashed so brightly it drowned out the fear. “This is my home too.”
His jaw tensed. A crack in the carefully charming mask.
“Not for long,” he murmured.
Before I could respond, soft footsteps padded from the hallway.
“Emily…”
Lena stood by the stairs, her face pale, her hoodie hanging loose over her small frame. Michael’s younger sister. My… step-sister, technically. The only one in this twisted household who looked at me with anything like kindness.
Her gaze flicked between us, lingering on the crushed will. “Michael, what are you doing?”
“Nothing you need to worry about,” he said without looking at her. His tone snapped like frost.
Lena ignored him and hurried toward me instead. Her fingers trembled as she pressed something into my palm.
A sealed envelope.
My breath caught. My name was written on the front in my father’s handwriting.
“I found it in his desk,” Lena whispered urgently. “He told me… if anything happened, I should give it to you. I didn’t know when. I didn’t know if I should. But—after tonight—”
“Lena,” Michael warned, voice low.
She flinched but didn’t back down. Her eyes were glassy with fear and determination. “Just take it, Emily. Please.”
Michael’s expression darkened. A storm inside a storm.
“That’s enough,” he said, stepping toward her.
I moved instinctively, blocking his path. “Don’t you touch her.”
For a heartbeat, we stared at each other—his fury, my defiance, Lena’s trembling breath trapped between us.
Then Michael smiled again. That awful, knowing smile.
“Fine,” he said lightly. “Enjoy your little letter. Just remember—” his gaze drifted down the hall, to the place where my father once stood every morning with his coffee— “curiosity is what killed him.”
Cold ripped up my spine.
He walked away without another word, heading up the stairs. Each step echoed like a countdown.
When he disappeared, Lena sagged against the wall, shaking.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I should’ve told you sooner. He’s been… different since your dad died.”
Different was an understatement.
Something was very, very wrong here.
I clutched the envelope to my chest. “Thank you, Lena.”
Her eyes filled with tears. “Be careful, Emily. He’s watching everything.”
Lightning cracked through the windows, illuminating the empty staircase where Michael had stood moments ago.
I didn’t know what was inside the letter.
But I knew one thing with painful clarity:
Whatever secrets my father left behind…
Michael had tried to bury them.
And now he knew I was digging.