Chapter 8 - THE HOUSE MY FATHER LEFT BEHINDMy father's house had been empty since his death.
I had sold almost everything.
But one room remained locked.
I had never understood why.
Christopher parked three blocks away.
We approached on foot.
Garrett refused help.
He was still weak, but he insisted on walking.
“One step at a time,” I told him.
He nodded.
The front door opened easily.
Inside, everything smelled like dust and old wood.
Memories attacked me.
My father's chair.
His books.
His coffee mug.
His reading glasses.
Everything was exactly where I remembered it.
I walked into his study.
The locked room was at the end of the hall.
I pulled out the key.
B-17.
It fit.
The door opened.
Inside was a wall of boxes.
Files.
Tapes.
Photographs.
I looked at Christopher.
“How did he hide all this?”
“He knew they were watching.”
Garrett found a metal case.
Inside was a recording device.
He pressed play.
My father's voice filled the room.
“If you're hearing this, the company has already been compromised.”
Then another voice.
A voice I recognized.
Ethan Vale.
“I told you to stop.”
My father's voice answered.
“You're going to prison.”
Ethan laughed.
“No one is going to prison.”
The recording ended.
I looked at Garrett.
“We have proof.”
“Not enough.”
“Why?”
“We need the account trail.”
We searched the files.
After twenty minutes, Christopher found a notebook.
Inside were bank transactions.
One destination appeared again and again.
A private foundation.
The Vale Foundation.
Garrett stared.
“Ethan.”
“Still him?”
“Partly.”
Then he pointed to a different name.
Victoria Corbin Foundation.
I looked confused.
“Who is Victoria?”
Garrett froze.
“My grandmother.”
“She's been dead for twenty years.”
“Yes.”
He opened another folder.
There were payments made years after her death.
Millions.
Then one final signature.
Evelyn Corbin.
I looked at him.
“Your mother.”
Garrett didn't answer.
We heard tires outside.
Christopher looked through the window.
“Someone followed us.”
Headlights appeared.
Then another car.
“We have to go.”
A siren sounded.
Police.
At first, I felt relief.
Then Garrett shook his head.
“That's not the police.”
“How do you know?”
“The same detective who ignored my report works for Ethan.”
The front door exploded inward.
Men rushed into the house.
Christopher grabbed me.
Garrett moved surprisingly fast.
We ran through the basement.
A bullet struck the wall beside my head.
I screamed.
We reached a tunnel beneath the house.
My father had built one.
I never knew.
At the end was a steel door.
Christopher opened it.
It led into a cemetery.
We climbed out behind my father's grave.
I fell to my knees.
His name was carved into the stone.
Robert Miller.
Garrett stood beside me.
“Your father died trying to protect you.”
I touched the stone.
“I thought I failed him.”
“No.”
Garrett looked at me.
“He succeeded.”
“How?”
“He kept you alive.”
Behind us, a car door slammed.
Christopher turned.
A woman stepped out.
Brenda.
Alive.
I stared at her.
“You're dead.”
She smiled.
“That was the point.”
Garrett's eyes narrowed.
“Where have you been?”
“Hiding.”
She walked toward us.
“I found out who ordered the accident.”
Garrett stiffened.
“Who?”
Brenda looked at me.
Then at Christopher.
Then she said:
“Your divorce.”
I frowned.
“What does my divorce have to do with any of this?”
May you like
Brenda's voice lowered.
“Everything.”
