Chapter 4 - I stared at the photograph for almost a minute.Harrison and Sloan were standing outside a restaurant.
They weren't smiling like a newlywed couple.
They were smiling like partners.
In the photo, Harrison's arm was around Sloan's waist.
Her hand held a folder.
They looked comfortable.
Too comfortable.
The date on the back was nine months before their wedding.
Seven months before they asked me if they could stay in my house.
I looked at Margaret.
“What does the rest say?”
She shook her head.
“The original page was damaged.”
“Who tore it?”
“We don't know.”
“What exactly did Thomas investigate?”
Margaret folded her hands.
“Your husband believed someone had been creating shell companies to move money.”
“Money from where?”
“Several sources.”
“Mine?”
“Not initially.”
“Then where?”
“Private investors. Real-estate accounts. Small family businesses.”
I stared at her.
“What did that have to do with Harrison?”
“Your husband believed Harrison knew more than he admitted.”
I felt something collapse inside me.
All these years, I had remembered Harrison as the little boy who used to sleep beside Thomas's chair during thunderstorms.
Now I was looking at financial evidence suggesting my husband had once been afraid of him.
“I need to know everything.”
“You may not like what you find.”
“I stopped caring about that.”
Margaret slid another file across the desk.
It contained company filings.
Dozens of them.
Different names.
Different addresses.
Different directors.
But the same pattern.
Money entered.
Money disappeared.
Assets changed hands.
One company caught my attention.
Bennett Property Services.
It owned nothing.
Yet $140,000 had passed through it in eight months.
Another company was called Silver Pines Consulting.
Another was Westbridge Solutions.
Another was Thomas Bennett Holdings.
“Why use my husband's name?”
Margaret looked at me.
“Because people trust a name they recognize.”
My stomach tightened.
“Who was the real owner?”
“We don't know.”
“Then find out.”
“We've been trying.”
“What stopped you?”
Margaret hesitated.
“A witness.”
“What witness?”
She opened another file.
“His name is Daniel Price.”
“Who is he?”
“He worked with your husband.”
“Worked with him doing what?”
“Investigating the transactions.”
I leaned forward.
“Where is he?”
Margaret looked at me.
“Dead.”
The word hung in the room.
“How?”
“Car accident.”
“When?”
“One year ago.”
I stared at the date.
Three months before Harrison and Sloan moved into my house.
Three months before my son supposedly needed temporary housing.
Three months before the first transfer from my emergency account.
The pattern was beginning to form.
I just didn't know what it spelled yet.
I returned home after dark.
The house was quiet.
Too quiet.
I entered through the garage.
My office door was closed.
I hadn't left it that way.
I stopped.
Someone had been inside.
I knew it.
I walked toward the door.
Then I saw the lock.
Scratched.
Someone had tried to force it.
I opened the door.
Everything looked normal.
Except one thing.
The blue folder was gone.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
I called Margaret immediately.
“It's missing.”
“What?”
“The folder.”
She was silent.
“Mrs. Bennett, leave the house.”
“Why?”
“Because whoever wanted that folder now knows you had it.”
I hung up.
I walked upstairs.
Harrison's bedroom door was closed.
Sloan's shoes were beside it.
I stood there listening.
Voices.
Whispers.
I couldn't hear all the words.
Then one sentence came through clearly.
“She has the trust file.”
Sloan.
Harrison responded.
“Then we have to move faster.”
I walked away.
For the first time in my own home, I was afraid.
Not emotionally.
Physically.
I locked my bedroom door.
Then I called Brenda.
She arrived twenty minutes later.
I told her everything.
She sat at the edge of my bed, pale.
“Evelyn, you need to leave.”
“I can't.”
“Why not?”
“Because this is my house.”
She looked at me.
“That doesn't mean it's safe.”
I didn't answer.
At midnight, my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
No one spoke.
Then a man's voice said:
“Your husband tried to stop us.”
I froze.
“Who is this?”
“He failed.”
“What do you want?”
“You have something that belongs to us.”
“I have nothing that belongs to you.”
A pause.
Then the man laughed quietly.
“You have no idea what your house is sitting on.”
The call ended.
I looked around my bedroom.
What could possibly be in my house?
At 1:03 a.m., I remembered Thomas's blue chair.
I ran downstairs.
The chair was in the garage.
I pulled it into the kitchen.
I examined every inch.
Then I saw something I had missed.
One wooden panel beneath the seat didn't match the others.
I pried it up.
Inside was a tiny metal key.
And beneath the key was a note.
May you like
Five words.
OPEN THE WALL BEFORE THEY DO.
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