Chapter 3 - What Frank Hid in the HouseRebecca took the photograph off the mantel.
I laughed nervously.
“What are you doing?”
“Checking something.”
“It's just a picture.”
“I know.”
She turned the frame over.
The back was sealed with brown paper.
She examined the edges.
“Did Dad ever repair this frame?”
“Not that I remember.”
She ran her finger along the bottom.
Then paused.
“Mom.”
“What?”
“There is a seam.”
She took a butter knife from the kitchen.
I stared at her.
“You brought legal training to a knife fight?”
“This isn't a knife fight.”
She slipped the blade beneath the backing.
The paper lifted.
Inside the frame was a shallow wooden compartment.
My heart began pounding.
“There was always something strange about that frame,” I whispered.
Rebecca looked at me.
“You knew?”
“Frank kept important things in odd places.”
“What kind of things?”
“Tax documents. Backup keys. Old watches.”
Rebecca opened the compartment.
Inside was a tiny USB drive.
And a folded envelope.
My name was written across it.
Margaret.
The handwriting was Frank's.
I sat down.
Rebecca handed me the envelope.
I didn't open it.
For some reason, my hands refused.
“What if it's nothing?”
“Then we'll know.”
“What if it's something?”
Rebecca looked at me.
“Then we'd better know.”
I opened it.
Inside was one sheet of paper.
My heart broke before I even read it.
Margaret,
If you're reading this, either I have been gone for some time or something has happened that made you look more closely at our finances.
Trust your instincts.
You have always been better with numbers than you believed.
There are accounts I never discussed with Daniel.
Not because I didn't love him.
Because I didn't trust him with them.
I read that sentence twice.
Then a third time.
Rebecca sat beside me.
“Keep going.”
I continued.
The USB contains copies of statements, property records and communications concerning a company called Bellwood Development.
Do not confront anyone until you understand the whole picture.
Especially Daniel.
There was one final line.
If Melissa tells you I approved anything after my death, ask her to show you the original.
I looked up.
“Rebecca.”
She had already gone pale.
“What?”
“Your father knew.”
She took the USB.
“About Daniel?”
“I think so.”
We went to Rebecca's apartment because she didn't want to open the drive on my computer.
She used a spare laptop.
The USB contained dozens of files.
PDFs.
Scanned contracts.
Emails.
Photographs.
Bank statements.
The oldest file was dated six months before Frank died.
Rebecca opened it.
It was a spreadsheet.
I recognized Frank's handwriting in the notes column.
Bellwood Development.
Investor structure.
Secondary account.
No Daniel.
No Melissa.
Rebecca leaned closer.
“Mom.”
“What?”
“Dad had a separate account.”
“How much?”
She scrolled.
At the time of his death, the account held nearly $280,000.
I stared.
“Where is it now?”
Rebecca clicked.
The account had been closed.
After Frank's death.
By an authorized representative.
My name appeared in the authorization section.
I shook my head.
“I never closed that account.”
Rebecca looked at the digital signature.
“It's not your signature.”
My stomach dropped.
“Then who signed it?”
Rebecca zoomed in.
“Someone used a scanned copy of your ID.”
Silence.
She continued searching.
The money from the account had been transferred to Bellwood Development.
I suddenly remembered something.
Three months after Frank's death, Daniel had told me the estate was complicated.
He had said there were tax liabilities.
He said some money had to remain in a temporary account.
I had believed him.
Rebecca opened another file.
This one was an email exchange between Frank and a man named Stephen Ward.
The subject line read:
DO NOT PUT MARGARET'S NAME ON ANYTHING.
Rebecca looked at me.
“Who is Stephen Ward?”
“I don't know.”
The email was short.
Frank had written:
If I cannot resolve this before the end of the year, I want Margaret completely removed from all Bellwood paperwork.
Stephen replied:
Understood. But Daniel is already asking questions.
Daniel knew about Bellwood before Frank died.
That realization hit harder than everything else.
Rebecca opened another email.
This one was from Frank to Daniel.
I have already told you no.
You will not use your mother's retirement money to cover Bellwood's losses.
Rebecca covered her mouth.
I stared at the screen.
“Bellwood had losses?”
“Apparently.”
“Daniel asked Dad for money?”
“Yes.”
“Did Frank refuse?”
“Yes.”
Rebecca clicked again.
A document appeared.
A handwritten note.
It said:
Daniel owes Bellwood $192,000.
My hands went cold.
“Why?”
Rebecca read the surrounding documents.
“Loans.”
“From who?”
“Dad.”
I stood.
My voice came out hoarse.
“My husband loaned our son nearly two hundred thousand dollars?”
“Apparently.”
“Why didn't he tell me?”
Rebecca looked at the screen.
“Maybe because he knew you'd forgive Daniel.”
I sat back down.
That sounded exactly like Frank.
He had spent his life protecting people from the consequences of their own decisions.
My son had inherited that kindness.
And apparently turned it into a weakness.
Rebecca was still scrolling.
Then she stopped.
“Mom.”
“What now?”
“There are videos.”
She opened a folder.
Security footage.
Hundreds of files.
Most were ordinary.
Frank arriving home.
Me gardening.
Daniel visiting.
Then one file caught her attention.
The date was three months before Frank died.
Time stamp: 11:42 p.m.
I watched the screen.
Frank entered his office.
Daniel followed him.
I had never seen the footage before.
My husband sat behind his desk.
Daniel stood across from him.
There was no audio.
Frank said something.
Daniel became angry.
He pointed toward the desk.
Frank shook his head.
Daniel slammed his fist down.
Then he leaned forward.
Frank stood.
Daniel left.
Rebecca paused the video.
“Mom.”
“I know.”
“No. Look.”
She zoomed in.
Frank had placed something inside his desk.
Something small.
A key.
Rebecca searched another camera.
An hour later, Daniel returned.
He went straight into the office.
He opened the desk.
He searched.
Then he walked out holding something.
A key.
My breathing stopped.
Rebecca looked at me.
“What key?”
“I don't know.”
She replayed the footage.
Daniel left the house at 12:16 a.m.
Then, three minutes later, Frank appeared in the hallway.
He was alone.
He looked directly into the camera.
And he held up one finger.
Then two.
Then three.
Rebecca frowned.
“What is he doing?”
I whispered the answer.
“He used to teach me.”
“Teach you what?”
“Numbers.”
I stared at the screen.
“One.”
“Two.”
“Three.”
Rebecca leaned closer.
Then her eyes widened.
“Mom.”
“What?”
“He wasn't counting.”
She paused the frame.
Behind Frank was the hallway mirror.
Written across the glass, in black marker, were three numbers.
Rebecca read them aloud.
“Four. Nine. One.”
She looked at me.
“Do those mean anything?”
I stared at the screen.
Then suddenly remembered.
A safe.
Frank had a safe.
And after his funeral, I had been told it was empty.
I looked at Rebecca.
“Daniel said there was nothing inside.”
Rebecca stood.
“Then tomorrow we're opening it.”
My phone rang.
The screen showed Daniel.
I almost didn't answer.
Rebecca motioned for me to put it on speaker.
I did.
Daniel's voice sounded exhausted.
“Mom.”
“What?”
“Rebecca needs to stop digging.”
My heart pounded.
“Why?”
He was silent.
May you like
Then he said:
“Because Dad wasn't the only one keeping secrets.”
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