I looked out the high arched windows of the boardroom.

The rain had started to fall, streaking the glass with long, silver lines.

The gardens below were dark and wet.

My mother had built those gardens.

She had spent forty years building a legacy of help and service, only for it to be treated as a personal bank account by the man I married.

“We need to secure the physical ledger,” Daniel said. “The one in the attic safe.”

“I’ll go get it,” I said.

“I’ll come with you,” Daniel said.

We left Rachel in the boardroom with her documents.

The hallway was quiet.

The portrait of my mother hung near the grand staircase, her eyes seeming to follow me as I walked past.

I paused for a moment, looking at her painted face.

“We’re getting it back, Mom,” I whispered.

Daniel and I walked up the narrow stairs to the third floor, where the old archives were kept.

The air was dusty and smelled of old paper and cedar.

The attic was filled with trunks and crates of the Hart family history.