Chapter 6 - The Night My Mother DiedPeter Walsh agreed to meet me at an abandoned garden center on the northern edge of the city.
The location struck me as unnecessarily dramatic, but when I arrived, I understood why he had chosen it. The building sat beyond a row of storage warehouses, far from the main road. Nobody could approach without being seen through its broken glass doors.
Peter was waiting beside a rusted workbench.
He looked older than his fifty-two years. His hair had thinned, and a long scar ran along the side of his jaw. When he saw me, he immediately lowered his eyes.
“Thank you for coming,” he said.
“Thank you for agreeing to speak.”
I introduced Mateo, then asked Peter to tell me what he'd witnessed.
He rubbed his palms together.
“I worked on the estate's grounds for nine years. Your mother treated the staff well. She knew our names, asked about our families, and remembered birthdays.”
His expression hardened.
“Harland was different. At first, he seemed efficient. He said the estate was losing money through wasteful spending and that we needed stricter controls. Then he started changing the rules.”
“Which rules?”
“Overtime approval. Housing charges. Medical advances. Everything. He said the changes came from you, but he never showed us a signed order.”
“Did you challenge him?”
“I asked him to explain a deduction on my salary. My wife had been diagnosed with cancer, and I was trying to work extra hours to pay for treatment.”
Peter swallowed.
“He told me I was fortunate to have a job at all. Then he showed me a document claiming I'd received a $9,000 advance from the assistance fund.”
“Had you?”
“Never.”
“What did you do?”
“I complained to the financial office. A few days later, Harland summoned me and accused me of stealing supplies. He said he could report me to the police or let me resign quietly.”
“Did you steal anything?”
“No.”
The answer was immediate.
“I had nothing to hide. But my wife was sick, and I couldn't risk being arrested. I signed the withdrawal.”
I studied his face.
“Tell me about the night my mother died.”
Peter took a breath.
“It was late. I was finishing a repair near the western entrance when I saw Harland carrying a folder into your mother's private study. He thought everyone had gone home.”
“What time?”
“About eleven thirty.”
“Who else was there?”
“Your mother's solicitor, Adrian Cole. They were arguing.”
My stomach tightened.
Peter continued.
“I couldn't hear all the words, but I heard your mother say the fund records belonged to her. Then Harland said she had already approved everything.”
“Did you see him sign my name?”
“I saw him put a document on the desk and write a signature. I couldn't see the page clearly, but I recognized your name because it was printed beneath the signature line.”
“Why would he sign my name before my mother died?”
“I don't know. But I saw Adrian take the document afterward.”
I leaned forward.
“Did you tell the police?”
Peter laughed without humor.
“Tell them what? That I saw a man sign a name from across a room? I had already been threatened with criminal charges. I was afraid.”
He reached into his jacket and removed a small digital recorder.
“I kept this.”
Mateo looked sharply at him.
“What's on it?”
“A voicemail my wife received the following morning.”
Peter pressed a button.
A man's voice emerged from the tiny speaker.
Harland.
“Peter, I understand you may have concerns about last night's events. I strongly advise you to keep them private. The estate is grieving, and Mr. Luca has enough problems without being burdened by accusations from disgruntled employees.”
There was a pause.
Then Harland continued.
“If you speak to anyone about what you saw, I cannot protect you from the consequences. Your wife is receiving assistance through the estate. It would be unfortunate if that arrangement became impossible.”
The recording ended.
Peter stared at the recorder.
“My wife died four months later.”
I didn't know what to say.
“I am sorry.”
He nodded once.
“I don't blame you, Mr. Luca. But I need you to understand something. Harland doesn't threaten people because he enjoys making them afraid. He threatens them because fear makes them predictable.”
I thought of Nora, kneeling beside a laundry sink.
I thought of Elena's pay statements, the invented debt, and Daniel's note.
“What happened to Daniel Reyes?” I asked.
Peter's face changed.
“You found his name?”
I showed him the photograph of the estate vehicle.
He examined it carefully.
“I saw that car the night Daniel died.”
“Where?”
“Outside the west gate. Harland was standing beside it. Adrian Cole was in the passenger seat.”
My pulse quickened.
“Was Daniel driving?”
Peter hesitated.
“I believe so.”
“Why would Harland be outside the gate if Daniel had taken the vehicle without permission?”
Peter looked at me.
“That was the story they told everyone?”
“Yes.”
“Then I think you should find the original accident report.”
“We're trying.”
“Don't rely on the copy stored at the estate. I overheard Harland say he needed to collect the original documents before the insurance investigator arrived.”
“Do you know where they went?”
Peter nodded slowly.
“Your mother's solicitor kept a private archive. When he retired, Harland arranged for several boxes to be moved into the estate's basement storage room.”
I felt a flicker of hope.
“Do you know which boxes?”
“Not exactly. But there was one marked with your mother's initials.”
He gave me an old photograph.
It showed my mother's study, taken during a formal event. Behind her, a narrow cabinet stood against the wall.
On the cabinet was a brass label.
M.V. PRIVATE RECORDS.
I recognized it.
The cabinet had been removed from the study shortly after my mother's funeral. Harland told me it had been sold along with several other furnishings.
I had never thought to question him.
“Thank you,” I said.
Peter stood.
“I have one more warning.”
I waited.
“If Harland discovers you've spoken to me, he'll try to make this look like a dispute between employees and management. He'll say Margaret is bitter, Elena is dishonest, and I'm a disgruntled former worker.”
“He can try.”
Peter studied me.
“There's another name you should investigate.”
“Who?”
“Martin Shaw.”
I showed him the vendor profile.
He shook his head.
“That's not his real name.”
A chill ran through me.
“What do you mean?”
“Seven years ago, I saw a man working with Harland on the fund accounts. He used a different name then. Andrew Mercer.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“No. But I remember his face.”
Peter removed a second photograph from the recorder's case.
It showed a man standing beside Harland near a company vehicle.
The image was grainy, but the resemblance was unmistakable.
Andrew Mercer and Martin Shaw were the same person.
And seven years earlier, he had been working inside my estate under an identity that didn't match the company records.
I looked at Mateo.
“Find out everything you can about this man.”
He nodded.
Peter turned toward the exit.
“Mr. Luca?”
“Yes?”
He hesitated.
“Your mother knew something was wrong. She wasn't careless. She simply believed the people around her were better than they were.”
I watched him disappear through the broken doors.
Those words followed me all the way back to the car.
My mother hadn't been a fool.
She had been generous, trusting, and determined to treat people decently.
Harland had mistaken those qualities for weakness.
And I had repeated the same mistake.
When we returned to the estate, Mateo received a call from the security office.
He listened for a few seconds, then turned toward me.
“Sir, we found the cabinet.”
“Where?”
“In the basement archive.”
I felt my heart lift.
“Is the paperwork inside?”
“Some of it.”
“What's missing?”
Mateo's expression darkened.
“Everything related to the night your mother died. Accident reports, transfer records, correspondence with Adrian Cole.”
I stared at him.
“Who moved the cabinet?”
“The inventory says it was transferred to storage under Harland's instructions.”
“When?”
“The day after your mother's funeral.”
Of course.
He hadn't waited weeks.
He had started removing evidence almost immediately.
I walked toward the basement.
The cabinet stood behind a steel door, its brass label dulled by dust. One drawer remained locked. The other drawers were nearly empty.
Mateo handed me a set of keys.
I opened the final drawer.
Inside lay a single sealed envelope.
My mother's handwriting covered the front.
FOR LUCA. OPEN ONLY IF THE FUND RECORDS ARE COMPROMISED.
Beneath the words was a date.
Three days before her death.
I stared at the envelope for several seconds, afraid of what it might contain.
Then I broke the seal.
The first page was a letter addressed to me.
The second page was a list of transfers.
And the third contained a sentence that made my knees feel weak.
Luca, if you are reading this, someone I trusted has been using my name, and I am afraid the same person may eventually use yours.
I read the sentence again.
At the bottom of the page, my mother had written the name of the person she suspected.
Not Harland.
Not Martin Shaw.
Not even Adrian Cole.
The name was Vivian Cole.
My chief financial officer.
May you like
And beneath it, in smaller writing, were four words.
Ask what she signed.
Related Stories
