Chapter 257

Chapter 257
Eileen's POV

The basement stairs creaked under our feet. Each step down felt like descending into the past—Mom's past, the secrets she'd kept, the danger she'd faced.

Margaret's hand was steady on the railing. Mine wasn't.

"This way," she said softly.

The air got colder as we went deeper. Mustier. It smelled like old paper and dust and something else. Something that made my chest tight.

The basement was packed with stuff. Wooden crates stacked against the walls. Shelves overflowing with leather-bound books and yellowed documents. A massive oak table covered in what looked like ancient family records.

"Emilia had this installed years ago," Margaret said quietly. She moved toward the far wall where three tall bookshelves stood. "I only found out about it after Theodore confronted her. She'd hidden it behind the wine rack—thought no one would look there."

She grabbed the middle shelf with both hands and pulled. It scraped across the floor with a horrible grinding sound.

Behind it was a stone wall. And in the center, a modern electronic keypad with a small digital screen.

My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat.

Moby squirmed out of my pocket and launched himself at the lock. His little tentacles started sliding over the numbers like he was trying to crack the code himself.

"The combination," I said. My voice came out hoarse. "Do you know it?"

Margaret nodded, her expression bitter. "Emilia told me before she... broke down completely. Said she needed someone to know, in case Malcolm came for her."

Her fingers trembled as she reached for the keypad.

"It's Serena's birthday," she whispered. "Sick, isn't it? She used your mother's birthday to lock away the proof of her murder."

She pressed the numbers slowly. Each beep echoed in the silent basement.

The lock released with a heavy clunk.

Margaret pulled the door open.

Inside were three manila folders and a metal box about the size of a shoebox. Everything was arranged with military precision. Neat. Organized. Like someone had known exactly what they were keeping and why.

My hands shook as I reached for the first folder.

Written across the front in Emilia's handwriting: Insurance.

"Open it," Margaret breathed.

I did.

The first document made my breath stop.

It was a printed agreement. The header read: WEREWOLF PREMATURE AGING SYNDROME REVERSAL FORMULA - USAGE RIGHTS TRANSFER AGREEMENT.

Party A: Malcolm Keaton.

Party B: Emilia Goode.

And there at the bottom—Malcolm's signature. Bold black ink. Unmistakable.

"Holy shit," I whispered.

My fingers traced over that signature. The paper felt real. Solid. This wasn't some copy or forgery. This was the actual document.

"He really did it," I said. "He really stole Mom's formula."

Margaret's hand covered her mouth. "Keep going."

The next pages were bank statements. Wire transfers from Malcolm's private accounts to a numbered account in Emilia's name. Hundreds of thousands of dollars. Spread over years.

Then the letters.

Malcolm's handwriting was sharp, aggressive. The first few were business-like. Discussing terms. Percentages. Distribution rights.

But the last one...

My vision blurred as I read it.

If Serena refuses to cooperate, we'll have to ensure her silence permanently. The formula is too valuable to let one woman's conscience stand in the way.

"Oh god," Margaret choked out. She grabbed the table edge. "He planned it. He actually planned to kill her."

Moby had crawled onto the letter. His whole body was puffed up, vibrating with what I could only describe as rage. For a creature the size of my palm, he looked absolutely murderous.

I forced myself to keep going. Opened the metal box.

Inside was a ledger. Handwritten entries in neat columns.

Formula Revenue Distribution - Quarterly Payments

Malcolm Keaton: 40%

Three other names I recognized immediately. Council members. Powerful wolves who sat in judgment over other supernaturals.

They'd all been getting paid. For twenty years.

"It's not just Malcolm," I said. My voice sounded far away. "It's a whole network. Council members. They've been profiting off Mom's murder this entire time."

Margaret sank into a chair. "This is bigger than we thought."

I gathered all the documents carefully. Spread them across the table.

My hands stilled on the ledger. Three Council members. A twenty-year conspiracy.

Silas had been right.

The realization hit me like cold water. When I'd demanded immediate action based on Emilia's confession alone, when I'd accused him of protecting his family—he'd been trying to tell me this. That Malcolm wasn't acting alone. That rushing in without proof would've gotten us both killed, and Malcolm would've walked free anyway.

I'd been so angry. So sure he was making excuses.

But he'd known. He'd seen what I couldn't—that this went deeper than one man's greed.

My throat tightened. I pressed my palms against the table, trying to steady myself.

Forced my brain to work through the shock and anger—and the sharp sting of guilt.

"These are good," I said slowly. "Really good. But..."

"But what?"

"The Council will fight back." I picked up the agreement again. "They'll say it's forged. That Emilia fabricated everything to save herself. The bank transfers could be explained as legitimate business transactions. The letters—they'll bring in handwriting experts, create doubt."

Margaret's face fell. "So it's not enough?"

"It's evidence. Strong evidence." I looked at Malcolm's signature again. "But we need more than evidence. We need a way to present this where they can't bury it. Where the whole supernatural community sees it before the Council can spin the narrative."

I pulled out my phone. Stared at Silas's contact.

My thumb hovered over the call button.

In my pocket, Moby chirped. He crawled up my arm and patted my cheek with one tiny tentacle. Like he was saying do it.

I called.

"Eileen?" Silas's voice came through immediately. "What's wrong?"

"I found evidence," I said. "Against Malcolm. Real evidence. But I need your help."

Silence. Then: "I'm coming. Don't touch anything else until I get there."

The line went dead.

---

An hour later, I was sitting in the Goode estate's drawing room. All the documents spread across the coffee table like pieces of a puzzle.

Moby had claimed the threatening letter as his personal territory. He sat on it like a tiny, gelatinous guard dog.

The door opened.

Silas filled the doorway. His gray-blue eyes swept the room, landed on me, then dropped to the table.

He crossed the space in three strides. Picked up the agreement first.

I watched his face as he read. Watched the muscle in his jaw tick. Watched his fingers tighten on the paper until I thought he might tear it.

"This is his signature," Silas said. His voice was deadly quiet. "I've seen it a thousand times."

"Keep reading."

He went through everything. The bank statements. The letters. The ledger.

When he got to the threatening letter, his eyes flashed gold. Just for a second. His wolf rising.

"He's dead," Silas said flatly. "Malcolm is fucking dead."

"The Council will protect him," I said. "Three of their members are implicated. They'll close ranks."

"Then we burn the ranks down."

He looked at me. Really looked at me. And something in his expression made my chest ache.

"You're right though," he continued. "We need to be smart about this. Public. Undeniable."

I stood up. Moved to stand beside him.

"We do this together," I said. "No more secrets. No more going it alone."

Silas's hand found mine. His fingers laced through mine, warm and solid.

"Together," he agreed.

Moby chose that moment to abandon his letter-guarding duty. He slithered across the table and climbed onto our joined hands. His tentacles wrapped around both our fingers like he was trying to tie us together.

"I think someone's playing matchmaker," I said.

The corner of Silas's mouth twitched. Almost a smile.

"Smart creature."