Chapter 11 - Renata's First SecretFourteen years.
That meant Renata's financial connection to the money predated my cottage dispute by more than a decade.
She hadn't discovered the money recently.
She had been looking for it for years.
Raymond stared at the account information.
"There's more."
"What?"
"The account had almost no activity."
"Until when?"
"Until six months ago."
He opened the transaction history.
The first large deposit appeared three weeks after Patricia's death.
$450,000.
Then another.
$600,000.
Then $1.2 million.
I felt sick.
"Where did the money come from?"
Shell companies.
Holding companies.
Consulting firms.
Fake invoices.
Money was moving in circles.
Then one transfer stood out.
$4,000,000.
Exactly.
The account hadn't received it.
It had sent it.
Destination:
GRANT MERCER FOUNDATION.
I stared.
"Grant."
"Yes."
"The dead man."
Raymond nodded.
I remembered Daniel.
Grant Mercer had supposedly died six months ago.
But if money had reached his foundation after his death, somebody was operating it.
"Who has authority?"
Raymond searched.
Then his face changed.
"Renata."
I felt a strange calm.
The pieces were beginning to fit.
Renata hadn't stumbled into my family's secrets.
She had been following them.
For years.
At 5:00 p.m., my phone rang.
Renata.
I answered.
"Where is the four million, Renata?"
Silence.
Then:
"What four million?"
"The account."
"What account?"
"The one you opened fourteen years ago."
No response.
I continued.
"The one that transferred four million to Grant Mercer's foundation."
Her breathing changed.
Then she said:
"You've been digging."
"Yes."
"You should stop."
"Why?"
"Because you don't know what you're touching."
"I know enough."
"You don't."
She paused.
Then said something that chilled me.
"Patricia didn't tell you what your father did."
"My father?"
"Ask Raymond."
I looked at my lawyer.
Renata continued:
"Ask him why Samuel Hayes wasn't supposed to own that land."
The call ended.
I turned to Raymond.
"What did my father do?"
"I don't know."
"You're lying."
He remained silent.
"Raymond."
Finally, he said:
"Your father wasn't the owner."
"Of the property?"
"Of the money."
"Whose was it?"
He shook his head.
"It came from a development partnership."
"Whose?"
"Six investors."
"Names?"
He opened an old file.
Five names were visible.
One had been blacked out.
"Who blacked it out?"
"Your father."
"Why?"
"Protection."
"For whom?"
"I don't know."
I looked at the black mark.
Then I saw a faint imprint beneath it.
We held the page under a lamp.
The hidden name became partially visible.
R.
R.
R.
I stared.
"Renata's family?"
Raymond didn't respond.
I searched old records.
Renata's maiden name was Rossi.
The first initial fit.
Could her family have been one of the investors?
At 8:20 that night, Daniel called.
"You're looking at the wrong family."
"What do you mean?"
"The Rossi family wasn't an investor."
"Then what were they?"
"Collectors."
"Collectors of what?"
"Debt."
I frowned.
Daniel continued.
"Your father borrowed money."
"How much?"
"Four million."
My heart sank.
"From whom?"
"The Rossi family."
"Why?"
"To save the company."
Suddenly the story looked different.
Maybe my father hadn't stolen four million.
Maybe he owed it.
Maybe Northstar wasn't a criminal operation.
Maybe it was a battlefield between families.
"Why did Patricia hide it?"
"Because the debt was paid."
"With what?"
Daniel was silent.
"With what, Daniel?"
"Your father's life insurance."
I sat down.
"What?"
"He died."
"You mean the money paid the Rossi family?"
"Yes."
"Then why are they still after us?"
Daniel hesitated.
"Because the debt wasn't four million."
"What was it?"
"Eleven."
The same amount as the trust.
Eleven million.
A number that kept appearing.
My wife hadn't left me a fortune.
She had left me a shield.
At least, that's what I thought.
Until Daniel said:
"Patricia discovered the debt was fraudulent."
I looked up.
"What?"
"Your father had already paid the original debt."
"Then where did the extra money come from?"
"That's the question."
A knock sounded at my front door.
I froze.
It was 10:07 p.m.
Raymond reached for his phone.
I walked toward the door.
"Don't."
I stopped.
Then someone slipped an envelope underneath it.
We waited.
No footsteps.
I picked it up.
Inside was a single photograph.
Patricia.
My father.
And a third person.
A young woman.
Renata.
But she wasn't fourteen years younger.
She looked about twenty-five.
And the photograph was dated twenty years ago.
May you like
On the back were three words:
She knew then.
