The basement of the Ashworth Construction building was a time capsule I hadn't expected to find.
Three days after our confrontation with Blackwood, I'd been searching for additional storage space to organize the company's chaotic filing system when I discovered something that made my pulse quicken with dangerous recognition. Hidden behind a collection of broken furniture and obsolete equipment was a door that had been painted over so many times it nearly blended into the wall.
The lock was old—genuinely old, not the modern reproductions that passed for antiques in this century. My fingers traced the brass mechanism, and something deep in my memory stirred like an echo from a dream.
I knew this lock.
"Eva? Are you down there?" Marcus's voice drifted down the narrow stairs, followed by the sound of his footsteps on creaking wood.
"I found something interesting," I called back, my voice carefully controlled despite the hammering of my heart. The lock had responded to my touch with the sort of familiarity that came from muscle memory, clicking open as if it had been waiting decades for the right hands to find it.
The room beyond took my breath away.
Dust motes danced in the beam of my phone's flashlight, illuminating walls lined with filing cabinets and storage boxes that bore the unmistakable craftsmanship of my era. But it was the massive safe in the center of the room that made my knees weak with recognition.
Mosler & Company, New York. The same manufacturer whose safes had protected Ashworth family documents and valuables for three generations. The brass fittings were tarnished with age but still solid, and the combination lock bore the distinctive pattern I remembered from countless childhood visits to my father's study.
"Jesus Christ," Marcus breathed from behind me, his flashlight beam joining mine to illuminate the preserved remnants of a forgotten time. "What is all this?"
"Ashworth family archives, by the look of it," I managed, proud of how steady my voice sounded despite the chaos of memory and recognition threatening to overwhelm me. "This room was hidden behind enough debris that whoever cleaned out the building after the company collapsed must have missed it entirely."
Marcus moved closer, his face filled with wonder as he took in the carefully preserved remnants of his family's vanished glory. "I had no idea any of this still existed. Dad never mentioned... he probably never knew."
His voice carried that familiar note of pain that always appeared when he spoke of his father—another failed Ashworth, no doubt, crushed by the weight of expectations he could never meet and legacy he could never understand.
"Business records," I said, opening one of the filing cabinets and withdrawing a folder at random. My hands were trembling slightly as I recognized my own handwriting on documents that had been sealed away for nearly a century. "Investment portfolios, property deeds... Marcus, do you realize what this could represent?"
The documents I examined were achingly familiar—contracts and correspondence from the 1920s and 1930s, preserved in meticulous detail by someone who understood their historical importance. But more than that, they provided exactly the cover story I needed for knowledge that no modern consultant should possess.
"Some of these investments..." I paused, letting my finger trace down columns of figures I remembered calculating myself by lamplight in my father's study. "Marcus, I think some of these might still be active."
It wasn't entirely a lie. In my time, I'd been obsessively careful to structure certain investments in ways that would survive the inevitable transitions of management and ownership. Shell companies within shell companies, trusts designed to operate independently, dividend reinvestment plans that would compound over decades without requiring active oversight.
I'd planned for a future I hadn't expected to see.
"That's impossible," Marcus said, but I could hear the desperate hope creeping into his voice like sunrise through curtains. "The family lost everything in the sixties. Grandfather made sure of that with his gambling and his terrible business decisions."
"They lost everything they knew about," I corrected, pulling out a document that made my chest tighten with memory—a trust agreement I'd signed just months before my disappearance, establishing a fund for 'the future security of the Ashworth line and any descendants who might need assistance in times of crisis.'
Marcus read over my shoulder, his breathing growing shallow as he absorbed the implications. The legal language was dense, but the core message was clear: someone had established a substantial trust fund specifically to protect future generations of the family.
"This trust... it says it's managed by Harrison, Whitmore & Associates. Are they still in business?"
"Only one way to find out," I said, already reaching for my phone. The device still felt alien in my hands, but I'd forced myself to master its basic functions with the same determination I'd once applied to learning French and German.
A quick search confirmed what I'd hoped: the law firm had evolved and changed names over the decades, but the core partnership still existed as Harrison, Whitmore & Blackstone—a name that made me pause with uncomfortable recognition.
"Eva," Marcus said quietly, his voice carrying a weight I hadn't heard before. "If even a fraction of these investments survived the family's collapse..."
"We'll know soon enough," I said, closing the folder carefully. But my attention had already shifted to the safe, looming in the center of the room like a monument to secrets and careful planning.
The combination lock seemed to mock me with its familiar complexity. I knew the numbers—they were burned into my memory like a brand—but how could I explain such knowledge to Marcus?
"We should probably get this opened," I said casually, approaching the safe with studied nonchalance. "There might be additional documents, or even physical assets that were overlooked."
"It would take a professional safecracker," Marcus said. "Those old Mosler safes were built like fortresses. The combination died with whoever set it."
My fingers were already moving toward the dial, drawn by muscle memory and the weight of secrets. Right to 12, left to 28, right to 07—my father's birthday, encoded in the system he'd taught me as a child for our most important family documents.
The mechanism clicked with satisfying precision, and the heavy door swung open with surprising ease.
The silence that followed was deafening.
"How did you..." Marcus started, then stopped, his eyes fixed on my face with an intensity that made my skin crawl with exposure.
Inside the safe, wrapped in oiled cloth and preserved by decades of cool, dry air, lay treasures that made my hands shake as I recognized them. My mother's pearl necklace, passed down through four generations of Ashworth women. My father's gold pocket watch, engraved with the family crest. And beneath them, jewelry cases lined with velvet, containing pieces I recognized from family portraits and formal occasions.
But it was the leather-bound ledger at the back of the safe that nearly stopped my heart entirely. "E. Ashworth - Private Accounts" was embossed on the cover in my own handwriting, the gold lettering still bright despite the passage of years.
"Eva," Marcus said slowly, his voice carrying a dangerous edge of suspicion. "How did you know the combination to that safe?"
The question I'd been dreading. My mind raced through possible explanations, each one more ridiculous than the last. How could I explain that I'd known because I'd set the combination myself, nearly a century ago? That every instinct guiding me through these discoveries was born of intimate familiarity rather than consultant expertise?
"Lucky guess," I said, forcing a casual shrug while my heart hammered against my ribs. "Wealthy families of that era often used significant dates for their security systems. Your great-grandfather's birthday seemed like the most logical choice."
It was thin—dangerously thin—but Marcus was too overwhelmed by the discoveries to press the point immediately. His attention had shifted to the jewelry cases, his hands trembling as he opened them to reveal diamonds and sapphires that caught our flashlight beams like captured starlight.
"These are..." He swallowed hard, clearly struggling to process the implications. "These are worth a fortune. Even accounting for market changes and the decades that have passed, some of these pieces..."
I picked up my grandmother's diamond necklace, feeling the familiar weight of the stones and the delicate gold setting. Even conservative estimates would place its value well into six figures, and that was just one piece among dozens.
"Operating capital," I said, surprised by how calm my voice sounded. "These assets were preserved for exactly this kind of crisis."
"Are you sure about this?" Marcus asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "These are family heirlooms. Once they're sold..."
"Once they're sold, they'll have served their purpose," I said firmly, channeling my father's pragmatic voice. "Your ancestors didn't preserve these treasures so they could gather dust in a basement. They preserved them so the family could survive."
It was exactly what my father would have said, and exactly what I would have done in his place. The Ashworth legacy wasn't built on sentimentality—it was built on the willingness to sacrifice anything and everything for the survival of the name.
But there was something else in the safe that made my pulse quicken with possibilities. A folder containing property deeds and land grants, documents that told a story of careful planning stretching back generations.
"Marcus," I said, spreading the deeds across the dusty floor. "Some of these property holdings... I think they might still be in the family's name."
The documents I was examining painted a picture of methodical investment that would have made modern financial advisors weep with envy. Small parcels of land in London and the surrounding counties, purchased not for immediate development but as long-term holdings. In my time, they'd been largely agricultural—fields and woodlands that generated modest rental income.
Now, after decades of London's explosive growth...
"These properties," Marcus said, his voice rising with excitement as he began to understand the implications. "Some of these are in areas that have been completely developed. If the family still holds clear title..."
I was already calculating values in my head, translating 1920s land prices into modern real estate values. Even small parcels in the right locations could be worth millions in this century's inflated market.
"We need a property lawyer," Marcus said, his hands shaking as he held deeds that could represent more wealth than he'd ever imagined. "And an accountant. And probably a security company to guard this room until we can get everything properly catalogued and valued."
"Agreed," I said, but my mind was already racing ahead to the challenges this discovery would create. "But Marcus, we need to be extremely careful about how we handle this information."
"What do you mean?"
"If word gets out that there are significant family assets that were overlooked during the original collapse, people are going to ask uncomfortable questions. Blackwood will find a way to claim them, or at minimum, use their existence to argue that your current financial distress is fraudulent."
Marcus's excitement dimmed as he absorbed the implications. "So what do we do?"
"We research everything quietly," I said, already formulating a strategy that would have made my father proud. "Any assets that can be recovered, we do it through proper legal channels but without fanfare. We establish a timeline for liquidation that doesn't trigger unwanted attention."
I gestured to the jewelry cases. "In the meantime, we select a few pieces that can be discreetly sold to provide immediate operating capital. Nothing too distinctive, nothing that would be recognized from family portraits or historical records."
"How do you know so much about... all of this?" Marcus asked, and I caught the edge of suspicion creeping back into his voice. "Asset recovery, discrete sales, legal frameworks... this isn't exactly standard business consulting."
Another dangerous moment. I could see him starting to connect dots I couldn't allow him to connect, at least not yet.
"Crisis management often involves unconventional asset recovery," I said, which was technically true. "When companies are failing, you learn to find value in places others overlook. I've handled cases involving family trusts, estate disputes, hidden assets... it's more common than you might think."
Marcus nodded slowly, but I could see him filing away his questions for later consideration. The immediate excitement of discovery was giving way to the sort of analytical thinking that could prove dangerous to my carefully constructed identity.
"There's something else we need to consider," I said, redirecting his attention to more immediate concerns. "The timing of this discovery, right after our confrontation with Blackwood... it's almost too convenient."
"You think someone knew about this room?"
"I think the Blackwood family has been circling Ashworth assets like vultures for decades," I said, drawing on knowledge I couldn't fully explain. "If they suspect there are additional family holdings, they'll be watching for any sign that we've found them."
The truth was more complex than I could safely reveal. The Blackwood and Ashworth families had been rivals for generations, and I suspected that Alexander Blackwood Jr.'s sudden acceleration of the foreclosure timeline wasn't just about collecting a debt—it was about acquiring the building and searching it for exactly the kind of assets we'd just discovered.
"So we proceed carefully," Marcus said, understanding the implications without needing detailed explanation.
"Very carefully," I agreed. "And we make sure that when we do surface these assets, it's on our terms, not theirs."
As we prepared to secure the room and leave, Marcus paused at the safe's entrance, staring at the combination lock with an expression I couldn't quite read.
"Eva," he said quietly. "That combination... my great-grandfather's birthday. How did you know the specific date?"
My blood turned to ice. I'd been so focused on the discovery and its implications that I'd failed to consider how specific my 'lucky guess' had been. Knowing to try birth dates was one thing—knowing the exact date of a man who'd died decades before I was supposedly born was another entirely.
"Research," I said quickly. "When I was preparing my initial assessment of the company, I looked into the family history. Birth and death dates, marriage records, that sort of thing. Professional thoroughness."
It was plausible enough to satisfy immediate questions, but I could see Marcus filing away another piece of information that didn't quite fit the picture I'd painted of myself.
As we climbed the stairs back to the main office, I felt the weight of the day's discoveries pressing against my carefully maintained facade. The treasures in that basement weren't just the key to saving the company—they were proof of who I really was, physical evidence that would be impossible to explain if examined too closely.
But they were also exactly what I needed to rebuild everything that had been lost. The Ashworth name would rise again, even if I had to forge it from the ashes of a century's worth of failure and the gold of my own buried past.
The question was whether I could manage the revelation of these assets without revealing the woman who had originally placed them there. And whether Marcus's growing suspicion would prove to be a threat to my carefully constructed identity, or an opportunity to begin sharing the truth with someone who might be worthy of it.
Outside, London hummed with the energy of eight million people pursuing their dreams and schemes, but in the basement of a failing construction company, the past had reached out to shake hands with the present in ways that would change everything.
End of Chapter 4