The Grey Heir

THE PRESSURE AT THE ESTATE

THE PRESSURE AT THE ESTATE

WILLIAM POV

The emergency board meeting had been running for two full hours by the time I finally decided I had heard enough, and I sat behind the desk with the laptop open while seven voices continued arguing about the gala and the three percent drop in the market that morning, with every one of them wanting answers about my health and whether Grey Enterprises needed an acting chief executive.

Arthur Stone adjusted his glasses on the screen before leaning closer to the camera.

“If you are dealing with a neurological problem, William, the board has a duty to protect the company.”

“The market moves every day, Arthur,” I said. “Last time was a reaction to incorrect medication from Saint Jude. Nothing more.”

I glanced toward the hallway that led toward the guest rooms, thinking about Nira Dickson, who had signed the full residential contract that morning and moved into one of the rooms only a few hours ago.

“I have already placed an independent physician in charge of my care,” I continued. “Dr. Nira Dickson now controls the medical protocol. A formal statement will go out before the market opens tomorrow. This meeting is finished.”

I closed the laptop, cutting off the voices before anyone could argue again, and the study immediately became quiet.

My jaw ached from holding it tight while a slow throb sat behind my eyes, so I reached for the glass of water on the desk and took a long breath, forcing the noise in my head to stay down.

The door opened and Ethan Cain stepped inside.

His silver hair was neat and his suit was clean, but the lines around his eyes showed that he had been listening to the same reports I had all morning.

Ethan had run this estate for thirty years, and he was one of the few people left who had been here on the night my mother died.

“The board is shaken,” I said.

“They are worried about their money, Master William,” Ethan replied. “Once the statement is released, they will quiet down.”

Ethan paused and looked back toward the hallway before turning his attention to me again.

“Detective Grey is downstairs. He says he needs to see you now.”

I felt my shoulders tighten.

“Armstrong.”

“Yes. He asked again about the east wing records from twenty-eight years ago. I told him those files remain sealed under your authority.”

“Keep them that way. No one goes near that wing without my word.”

“Understood. Shall I send him away?”

“No. He will only come back. Bring him in.”

Ethan left the study, and a minute later Armstrong Grey walked through the door in a dark coat with the collar turned up against the fog.

He had never cared about the company or the family name, and he had spent his life as a homicide detective working cases most of the family preferred to forget.

He stopped near the fireplace and looked at the small bandage on my temple.

“You look steady for someone who tore through an emergency room.”

“Bad reaction to medication. I already told the board the same thing.”

“Skip the official line, William.” Armstrong took a step closer. “I am not here as your uncle today. I am here as the detective who walked into that room twenty-eight years ago.”

The quiet in the study changed.

“The case is closed,” I said.

“The file is closed. The questions are not.” Armstrong's eyes stayed on mine. “A seven-year-old does not pick up a fountain pen and drive it into his mother's neck without something leading to it. I have looked at those photos for twenty-eight years, and something about that night still does not sit right.”

“I killed her.”

The words came out flat because I had said them to myself every day since that night.

“What more do you want?”

“I want to know why.” Armstrong's voice stayed even. “You have spent your life calling yourself a monster because that answer is easier than admitting there are pieces you do not remember.”

I looked away from him.

He did not pull out a notebook or try to question me like a suspect. He simply stood there with the same serious expression he had carried into the room.

“I am going through my old notes again,” he said. “I am not doing this to ruin you. My sister deserves the truth. Whether you want it or not, so do you.”

“If you bring the department near this estate, I will use every lawyer I have to stop it.”

Armstrong gave a tired half-smile.

“I do not need a warrant to ask questions about memory. Just be careful who you trust inside these walls.”

He turned and walked out, leaving the doors to close behind him.

I stood alone in the study with my hands tightening into fists before I even realized I was doing it, and for a second the faint smell of blood seemed to rise in the room as the memory I had spent twenty-eight years trying to bury pushed against the back of my mind.

I closed my eyes, drew a slow breath and forced it back down.

I looked toward the hallway leading to the guest rooms.

Nira Dickson was somewhere behind those doors.

I did not know yet if she could hold the darkness when it came or if she would run like the others had, but the quiet that had settled over the estate since she arrived was the first real quiet I had felt in a long