Chapter 4 - Grace's back touched the wall.Malcolm stood between her and the door.
“What did you tell him?”
“Nothing.”
“Don't lie.”
Grace's voice trembled.
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
Malcolm studied her.
Then he smiled again.
“You're a terrible liar.”
Grace said nothing.
He walked toward her.
“You have no idea what you're involved in.”
“I work here.”
“You clean rooms.”
“I do my job.”
“You heard things you weren't supposed to hear.”
Grace stared at him.
“What happened to Mr. Whitmore?”
Malcolm's eyes hardened.
“You shouldn't ask that question.”
“Is he alive?”
The silence answered before he did.
Malcolm stepped closer.
“You're going to forget yesterday.”
Grace shook her head.
“No.”
“You're going to forget the beggar.”
“No.”
“And you're going to forget everything you heard.”
Grace looked toward the door.
Malcolm followed her eyes.
“There is nowhere to go.”
Suddenly, footsteps sounded in the hallway.
Malcolm turned.
A housekeeper called his name from outside.
He stepped away.
“Tomorrow,” he whispered.
“You'll understand why silence is safer.”
He opened the door and left.
Grace waited until his footsteps disappeared.
Then she moved fast.
She pulled the old note from beneath the mattress.
There had to be more.
She searched the room.
Inside a suitcase.
Under the dresser.
Inside her closet.
Nothing.
Then she remembered the phrase at the top.
TO MY SON.
Maybe it wasn't a letter.
Maybe it was a message.
She turned the paper over.
A series of tiny numbers appeared in the corner.
Coordinates.
Grace didn't understand them.
But someone would.
The next morning, Adrian stood across the street from Whitmore House wearing a baseball cap and dark glasses.
He watched the mansion.
He had spent the night checking company records.
Something was wrong.
Three shell companies had been created in the past year.
All were receiving millions from Whitmore Global Holdings.
And all were approved using his executive credentials.
He had never authorized them.
Someone had forged his signature.
He called Malcolm again.
No answer.
Then Grace came through the side gate.
Adrian followed her at a distance.
She entered a small coffee shop.
He waited outside.
Ten minutes later, she left carrying nothing.
Adrian stepped inside.
A waitress approached.
“You came with Grace?”
Adrian frowned.
“Yes.”
The waitress handed him an envelope.
“She told me to give this to you.”
Inside was the old note.
Adrian read it.
His father's handwriting.
His heart pounded.
Your mother is not the woman you believe she is.
Below it:
Trust no one who tells you I died naturally.
Adrian sat down.
His father had died when Adrian was twenty-two.
Heart attack.
That was the official story.
But Adrian remembered something.
His father had been terrified during his final week.
He had tried to say something to Adrian.
Then Evelyn had interrupted.
Adrian had spent twenty years believing the tragedy was over.
It wasn't.
The waitress returned.
“There's one more thing.”
“What?”
“Grace said you should look at the back.”
Adrian turned the note over.
The coordinates.
He typed them into his phone.
They pointed to a location fifteen miles from the estate.
A private cemetery.
The Whitmore family cemetery.
Adrian stood.
Then his phone rang.
Unknown number.
He answered.
A distorted voice said:
“Your father didn't die of a heart attack.”
Adrian's blood ran cold.
“Who are you?”
“You're asking the wrong question.”
“What question should I ask?”
The voice replied:
“Ask who was standing beside his hospital bed when he stopped breathing.”
The call ended.
Adrian looked toward the cemetery coordinates.
May you like
His father's grave suddenly felt less like a grave.
And more like a warning.
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