Clare and Kate beside me. The paper was fragile with age, but the words were clear, written in a shakier version of Brook’s precise handwriting. To the woman who finally stops me, if you’re reading this, you’ve done what I couldn’t. You’ve chosen justice over power, healing over revenge. I write this sitting in my newly renovated study, feeling my unborn son move inside me, wondering what kind of mother I’ll become, what kind of monster I already am.
In the hidden rooms beneath every Harrison property, you’ll find more than evidence. You’ll find bank accounts, property deeds, and trust funds. A fortune built on broken dreams. Charles Harrison didn’t just destroy businesses. He stole them piece by piece. Rebuilding his empire with the fragments of women’s lives. I followed his template, perfected it, and in doing so became something worse than my aborn air.
But I did something else, too. Something neither Charles nor Richard ever discovered. For every business we destroyed, every woman we broke, I kept a separate set of records. Real records showing the true value of what was stolen. And I did more than document. I duplicated every property deed, every account, every asset.
I created shadow versions, all legally binding, all hidden away. With this letter, you’ll find a key to a safety deposit box at First National Bank. Inside is everything you need to transfer it all back. Not just to return what was stolen, but to restore what was lost with 30 years of interest. I tell myself I kept these records as insurance.
But the truth is simpler and harder to face. I kept them because some part of me, the part that died the day I chose power over justice, wanted someone to find them, wanted someone to be stronger than I was. You’re reading this because you were that someone. Because you did what I couldn’t. You fought back.
You didn’t let the AB turn you into an AB ear. You kept your humanity. Use it wisely. Use it better than I did. Brooke Harrison, April 15th, 1990. 3 months later, I stood in the newly renovated Harrison Foundation building. Now the eyes open Foundation for Women’s Economic Justice. The hidden rooms had yielded exactly what Brooke promised.
the means to restore everything the Harrison family had stolen with interest. “But they’d revealed something else, too.” “Something Brooke hadn’t mentioned in her letter.” “Ready?” Kate asked, adjusting the sign above the building’s entrance. I nodded, watching as women began arriving for the foundation’s opening day.
