Legacy: The Book of Three

She studied him, tugging her lower lip between her teeth. She needed help - his help - but whether he’d offer it depended on how much he already knew. And that, she wasn’t sure of.

He shifted impatiently and looked toward the door, his hand beginning to rise from the top of his desk where it had been resting for the last several minutes of tense small talk.

“Miss Co-,” he began, and she made up her mind, decisively cutting him off before he could end the meeting prematurely.

“Mr. Murphy, can you keep a secret?”

Her sharp tone startled them both.

His jaw clicked shut. She winced. Maybe a little too dramatic. She softened her voice and sat back, her hands resting on her crossed knees.

“You knew my father. As you know, he was a….complicated…. man. A formidable conclusion to a long line of ruthless men who shaped this country by trading in secrets like currency. As one of his legal representatives, this shouldn’t surprise you.”

She waited, but he didn’t so much as blink. Damned lawyer.

She went on, a little more slowly now, testing his reactions as she spoke. “Much of our family history has been… sanitized, but there are many skeletons in the proverbial closets.”

She took him in again - lean, muscular, clad in a starch-stiff white shirt and blood red tie. Dark hair combed straight back, square jaw relaxed and unreadable. His hooded eyes revealed nothing. Professional to the bone, this man.

“After my father died, I happened upon some of those skeletons and I find myself in need of help. Your help, to be specific. So, I ask again: can you keep a secret?”

Aisling’s green-gold eyes remained locked on his. His cool impassivity was grating.

He leaned back slightly, one hand holding a sleek metal pen, thumb clicking it absently, elbow resting casually on the armrest of his leather desk chair. She recognized the pose: polite detachment. She needed the man under that cool mask—but how to crack through?

“I believe attorney-client privilege would cover whatever you, as his sole heir, might have to say regarding his estate. Is that what you are asking?”

God, shades of her father, she thought in frustration, batting aside the unexpected emotion there.

“No,” she said slowly. “This is more of a…personal…matter, Mr. Murphy. So, no, this does not fall under that attorney-client privilege.”

She held his gaze. Still nothing.

This man would be an absolute demon at a poker table.

She clamped down on her annoyance and leaned forward, fingers twisted together tightly. Time to go all in.

“So, I ask you again, one more time,” she said, drawing in a steady breath, “can you, Mark A. Murphy, son of Audrey and Carl Murphy, grandson of Abigail Sullivan of County Cork, great-grandson of Milina Fitzgerald - also of County Cork - keep a secret?”

At the tightening of his jaw, she leaned back. Finally, a nerve struck. Which nerve, though?

He said nothing, his laser focus intent on her face.

Who the hell was this woman, and what purpose would she have to know those details?

It wasn’t hard to trace someone’s lineage these days. DNA kits, family tree websites, social media breadcrumbs. But the way she had delivered it… deliberate, practiced. A magician’s misdirection. It wasn’t about what she said—that was the flash—it was about why she had said it.

She was clearly aiming for personal - and hit the mark - you can’t get much more personal than your family tree. She was baiting him, probing for something unknown. And damn it, she got under his skin.

But her tone, her body language - it wasn’t a bluff. He read people for a living. She wasn’t here for attention, this had purpose behind it.

He hated games. But curiosity? That personal thread? That was harder to ignore.

“Yes, Miss Connor, I believe I can. So, how can I, Mark A. Murphy,” he echoed, his voice measured, “be of assistance?”

Her eyes drifted to the window as relief tangled with dread. He was in. His word wasn’t binding, but she knew, deep down, this was a secret he would keep, just as she had.

She fought a dry throat, mentally juggling a dozen possible openings. How to summarize a story that spanned centuries into an elevator pitch without losing him along the way? She couldn’t start at the beginning—too long ago. She couldn’t start with the present—no context. And if he already knew? Well, then she had just walked into a trap. That thought settled her opening.

“Mr. Murphy, are you aware of the Walsh family from County Cork?”

His brow furrowed. “County Cork? That’s in Ireland? I’ve never been to Ireland. Don’t know anyone named Walsh.”

Confusion, not recognition. She scanned for unconscious micro-expressions; his hands remained still, no eye movement, no pursed lips, no pupil dilation. He wasn’t lying.

She nodded. Direct was the way to go.

“Your grandmother has a book. Very old. The cover was maybe burgundy once, now probably a faded grey. Gilt-edged pages, uneven. Black metal lock on the cover. I need that book. And I need you to get it - today - without anyone knowing.”

He blinked. A beat of silence passed.

What the hell was she playing at?

His grandmother had lots of old books he admitted silently, but that book? The one under the floorboards of her sitting room? No one knew about that book, not even his mother. His mind flashed to a rainy day, several years ago… Can you keep a secret?

He could—and had for years.

So how the hell did this woman know?

Aisling reached into her tote and pulled out a large, flat rectangle covered in oilskin. She unwrapped it carefully - gingerly - not touching it directly, and placed it on the corner of his desk.

It was nearly identical to the one in his grandmother’s vault.

She continued, voice calm. “This belonged to my father. After he died, I found a letter telling me to destroy a locked iron box—without opening it. He told me where to find the box and included very specific, oddly ritualistic details on exactly how to destroy the box. Above all, he was very adamant that I never, under any circumstances, open the box or let anyone know of its existence. So naturally, I had to see what was in it.”

The silence between them grew heavy.

“Go on,” he prompted hesitantly, picturing the book in his grandmother’s vault, wondering why he had never thought to open it.

“No key. I searched everywhere, but eventually called a locksmith. Three locksmiths tried and failed. All died.”

He looked at the book.

Identical.

“So how did you open it?”

“Four months of trial and error and a dark corner of YouTube got me into the box. The cover was trickier and resisted all picking attempts. Finally found the key—in the Cayman Islands. It was the only thing in the safe deposit box.”

Something scratched at the back of his brain, an unnerving sensation he couldn’t put his finger on.

“But this,” she pointed to the book, “is only one of a set of three. Your grandmother has one of the remaining two.”

So, why does she need it? he wondered.

“What makes you think my grandmother has a book like this one?”

“Because they are linked. They identify themselves as a set. I believe these three books are identical in almost every way, but tailored for each family.”

His brow furrowed again. “What do you mean they identify themselves as a set?”

“The first page lists the names of all three books - and the families who hold them. All from County Cork. All immigrated at the same time. And all prospered enormously.”

“Okay? Lots of immigrants have done well. It is the land of opportunity, after all,” he pointed out. “But, for the sake of argument, even if my family had one way back when, why would you think that my grandmother has it today?”

“Because they can’t be lost. They can’t be destroyed. And they can’t be given away. That’s how I know she still has it. This book,” she pointed, “tells me where to find the other books.”

Bullshit, his internal meter pinged.

She leaned against the back of the chair and explained, “My family was patrilineal. Yours matrilineal. My books passed father to son. Yours mother to daughter. No son on my side. No daughter on yours. The Walsh followed a different line that I haven’t really pinned down. Your mother is the last female in her line. My father, the last male on mine. Your sister would have been the continuation. My brother, killed when he was twelve, would have been ours.”

McKenna, the thought, with a pang of anger.

Noting his hardening features, she went on, “The book was written in a language I didn’t recognize. It took me three years to translate. And although this book spans roughly the last two hundred years, give or take, I believe it is part of a larger work that spans thousands. In short, Mr. Murphy, these books tell the history of the families they were written for. From the time they were formed until the end of the family line. This book is two hundred years of history for us, but at the time it was written, future events for them.”

“Like a prophecy?” he scoffed.

“No. Like a record. Of things that haven’t happened yet.”

“You’re saying this book,” he tapped the oilskin, “was written two centuries ago but contains events that are happening now?”

She nodded. “Details about each generation. Undeniable details that all came to pass.”

He felt an itch behind his eyes and frowned.

“So… you think a book written in 1825 or whatever told your parents to name you Aisling, so they did?”

Aisling pulled a large sheet of paper from her bag. She began unfolding it, and spread it out on his desk. A color photograph of a single page of text stared back at him. He could see the edges of the pages, and the black lock. Translations were penciled in above each unfamiliar word. She pointed.

“Mark Andrew Murphy, born April 2, 1983 in Buffalo, New York at 9:35 pm to Audrey Sullivan and Carl Murphy. Sister McKenna, died age four, October 15, 1993. Car accident. Your nanny - Olivia - was also killed.”

His face was granite, smooth and cold but she could feel the heat of anger radiating from his core.

“That could be a trick. You could have written anything - doesn’t mean it’s an actual translation. Or even that the book is real.”

“I understand your concern. I had my own doubts. Get the book. Read it yourself,” she said calmly as she began to fold the oilskin back in place. “Don’t forget the key, they are hell to open without it.”

She slid the package into her tote.

“But Mr. Murphy,” she said softly, “the clock is ticking.”

He narrowed his eyes, “What does that mean?”

“Bottom line?” she met his eyes. “One of us dies tonight.”

He stared at her.

“Dies? How?”

“I don’t know. My book ends tonight. I suspect maybe yours does, too. Best case scenario? We need a new edition. But context matters. And this book leads me to believe that one of us will die tonight. But how and when? I don’t know but I doubt it will be of natural causes. Maybe one of us is the killer—or it could be someone else that knows about the books. I honestly don’t know. I need that book.”

“How can you be sure? Isn’t this translated? Maybe there is a mistake.”

She stood and slung the strap of her tote bag over her shoulder before answering softly, “My father was trying to protect me—from what, I have no idea, but whatever it was frightened even him. I’m out of answers, and that’s why I came to you. We both have questions. You are the only one who can get the answers.”

She looked out the window at the fading afternoon light, “But time is running out. I suggest you hurry.”

As the sun caught the golden rings of her irises, he remembered a song his grandmother used to hum—about a golden girl. It always made him unbearably sad, though he didn’t know why. And then the echo of her words returned… Can you keep a secret?

A rainy day, his grandmother’s frail hand on his… Can you keep a secret?

His mother’s eternal despair, his grandmother’s guilt. McKenna’s big, round eyes and infectious grin.

He stood. “I’ll drive.”

He didn’t have the answers.

But he knew who did.