I felt my own pulse quicken, unsure yet what any of this had to do with me specifically.
“‘My real granddaughter wrote to me for eleven[ years. I never received a single one, until three weeks ago, when I found them myself.'”
Renata’s face had gone pale, her hands gripping the arms of her chair tightly enough that her knuckles whitened visibly.
“‘I want to know exactly who hid them from me, and for how long.'”
Mr. Castellan paused, letting that sentence settle fully before continuing to the next page.
I glanced around the room during that pause, watching several relatives exchange confused, uncertain glances.
Clearly hearing all of this for the first time along with the rest of us.
An older man across the table muttered something under his breath, shaking his head slowly at whatever he was privately putting together.
“He requested a full investigation,” Mr. Castellan said, looking up from the folder. “Into who intercepted those letters, and why.”
Renata stood abruptly, chair scraping loudly against the floor.
“This is absurd,” she said, though her voice lacked its earlier confidence. “I have no idea what he’s talking about.”
“He anticipated that response,” Mr. Castellan said calmly. “He left specific instructions for exactly this scenario.”
He pulled a separate, smaller envelope from the folder, sealed with wax, Mr. Ashworth’s initials pressed carefully into it.
“This is addressed directly to you,” he said.zaml
Looking at Renata. “He asked me to open it only if you denied any knowledge of the letters.”
Renata stared at the envelope like it might bite her, several long seconds passing before she finally nodded for him to continue.
Her hands were visibly shaking now, the earlier confidence she’d walked in with completely gone, replaced by something raw and frightened.
I found myself feeling an unexpected flicker of sympathy watching her, despite everything already suggesting she deserved none of it.
Mr. Castellan broke the seal carefully, unfolding a single page covered in Mr. Ashworth’s careful, deliberate handwriting.
“‘Renata, I found the letters in your old desk, the one you left in my garage when you moved.'”
Renata’s composure cracked completely, her hand flying to her mouth.
“‘I recognized Isla’s handwriting on the first envelope. I recognized it on all of them.'”
The room erupted into quiet, urgent whispers, several relatives turning to stare openly at Renata now.
“Who’s Isla?” I asked quietly, unable to hold the question back any longer.
An older woman across the table answered before anyone else could. “Thomas’s daughter. Renata’s niece. Gideon’s real granddaughter.”
“Thomas was my brother,” Renata said quietly, the fight suddenly gone from her voice entirely. “He died eight years ago.”
She looked down at her hands as she said it, something almost like grief crossing her expression for the first time since I’d known her.
“After he died,” she continued, unprompted, “Isla and I never really talked. I don’t even know why anymore.”
Mr. Castellan continued reading, his voice steady despite the obvious weight of what he was delivering.
“‘I don’t know why you hid them, Renata. I have theories. None of them comfort me.'”
“‘But I want Isla found. I want her told the truth. And I want her included in everything that follows, regardless of what you’ve done.'”
Renata sat back down slowly, her earlier composure completely gone, replaced by something closer to quiet devastation.
“I can explain,” she said, though her voice suggested she wasn’t entirely sure that was true.
“You’ll have that opportunity,” Mr. Castellan said. “Formally, with the appropriate authorities, given the nature of what your father has requested.”
The room stayed quiet after that, everyone absorbing the reality of what this conference room reading had just become.
Far more serious than a standard will.
I sat there, still holding the envelope Renata had given me at the funeral.
Unopened, unsure what any of this actually had to do with me.
Mr. Castellan turned toward me directly, folder still open in his hands.
“There’s more,” he said. “Specifically regarding you.”machirajl
I felt my stomach tighten, uncertain what else could possibly be coming after everything already revealed in that room.
“‘To the young woman who visited me every Sunday,'” he read. “‘I want you to know something important.'”
“‘Whatever the arrangement was when it started, it stopped being that within a month. You gave me real company. Real conversation. Real kindness.'”
I felt tears building immediately, unprepared for this particular turn in an already overwhelming morning.
“‘I’m leaving you the contents of my personal savings account, separate from the rest of my estate. It isn’t a fortune.
It’s meant specifically for you.'”
