The front hall of Van Kessel Manor, usually a repository for dust motes and lingering damp, now buzzed with a chaotic energy. Three local broadcast crews had crammed their tripods and microphones between peeling ancestral oils and a lopsided brass coat rack. Zeger, still breathing hard from his dash back from the De Witt offices, adjusted his rumpled shirt. Mevrouw Gijsberta van Schoonhoven, impeccably dressed in a tweed suit, sat composedly at a small, antique desk Zeger had dragged from the library. A stack of organized documents lay before her, the velvet-bound log prominent among them. Outside, the rumbling growl of the moving truck idled, a constant, low threat. “The house of Van Kessel has an announcement regarding the dispute over this property,” Zeger began, his baritone steady enough to slice through the din. He felt Yfke’s ethereal presence close by, a faint, cool current in the stale air. Her form was almost invisible now, like heat haze over a summer road, but he knew she was there, clinging to his resolve. Just as a journalist from the *Breukelburg Daily* raised a hand, the heavy oak doors swung inward with a theatrical creak. Hugo De Witt strode in, flanked by two sharp-suited attorneys whose expressions promised ruinous litigation. His tailored coat was impeccable, his gaze ice-cold as he swept over the assembled press and landed, with disdain, on Zeger. “Mr. van Kessel, what exactly is this charade?” Hugo’s voice was a low growl, echoing in the hall. “Your eviction notice is for this afternoon. These gentlemen,” he gestured to his lawyers, “are here to ensure you comply.” Zeger met his gaze without flinching. “On the contrary, Mr. De Witt. This is not a charade. This is an exoneration. And a reckoning.” He picked up the faded, calfskin notebook – Beatrix's hidden testimony – and then the calfskin De Witt volume. “For generations, my bloodline has carried the shadow of a lie. The murder of Yfke van der Meer, my spectral landlady, was attributed to my great-great-grand-uncle, Floris. That accusation was false.” The correspondents exchanged bewildered glances. A ghost? A murder? This was far more than a property dispute. “Yfke van der Meer was not murdered by a Van Kessel. She was murdered by Gijsbert van Schoonhoven,” Zeger stated, the name ringing with grim clarity. He saw Mevrouw Gijsberta flinch, but she held her posture, her eyes fixed on him with a depth of emotion he hadn't seen before. “Mevrouw van Schoonhoven, if you would.” Mevrouw Gijsberta cleared her throat, her voice, usually gentle, now firm with purpose. “My great-grandfather, Gijsbert, harbored an unrequited affection for Yfke. When she rejected him, choosing Bastiaan De Witt, he… he pushed her down the grand staircase of this very manor. My grandmother, Beatrix, was Yfke’s handmaiden and witnessed the entire horrific event. Her testimony, which I have carefully guarded for decades, details the exact circumstances.” She opened the aged book, revealing its spidery script to the nearest camera lens. “This confession was kept hidden, not out of malice, but fear. The families involved,” she looked directly at Hugo, “were powerful. They buried the truth to protect their reputations and their burgeoning financial interests.” Zeger opened the De Witt volume to a marked ribbon. “This, Mr. De Witt, is where your forebears' complicity truly comes to light. It details a covert financial syndicate between the Van Schoonhovens and De Witts. A partnership that began, conveniently, within weeks of Yfke van der Meer’s death. A partnership that secured Gijsbert van Schoonhoven’s silence and cemented the false narrative that allowed your ancestor, Bastiaan De Witt, to mourn Yfke’s loss while his family profited from the cover-up. It also ensured the Van Kessel name would remain sullied.” Press pens scratched furiously over steno pads while flashbulbs snapped. Hugo De Witt’s face had gone from disdain to a pale, furious red. His retainers, momentarily stunned, began to whisper urgently in his ear. “This is baseless slander!” Hugo finally erupted, his voice strained. “A desperate attempt to avoid eviction! There’s no proof of any ‘spectral landlady’ or ancient conspiracy!” “Oh, but there is.” Zeger's eyes, usually half-lidded with apathy, now gleamed with a sharp, focused intensity. “And there’s more. The Van Kessel treasure, the one you’re so eager to seize, Mr. De Witt, was never gold. It was a love story. Yfke’s legacy. Her poems.” At his words, a soft, golden radiance began to emanate from the back of the manor, from the direction of the ruined aviary. It wasn't a sudden burst, but a gentle, growing luminescence, like the first rays of dawn painting a grey sky. It pulsed steadily, casting long, dancing shadows through the dusty hall, drawing every eye. The light intensified, bathing the grim interior in a warm, honeyed glow. The press corps gasped, lens mounts swiveling toward the corridor. The De Witt legal aides tumbled back against the wainscoting, muttering in disbelief. Hugo De Witt simply stared, teeth slightly parted, his tailored arrogance peeling away into raw shock. And then, within the radiant light, a figure coalesced. Slowly, deliberately, Yfke van der Meer solidified. Her shimmering, translucent edges sharpened into distinct lines. Her dress, a vibrant cerulean, flowed around her. Her hair, the color of polished mahogany, framed a face that held both the vivacity of life and the gentle wisdom of a century’s observation. She was real. Tangible. Her skin glowed, her eyes, the vivid green of spring leaves, were no longer haunted by fading memories but shone with a clear, profound presence. The golden light seemed to ripple from her very being. She was visible, undeniably, gloriously visible, not just to Zeger, but to every single person in that hall. She offered a slow, bittersweet smile, her gaze locking onto Zeger's and holding fast.

Payback is a Press Conference