Chapter 11 - The Woman Behind My MotherI raised my hands.
Amy stood beside my mother.
Her face was wet with tears.
Her hands were tied.
“Let her go.”
My mother smiled.
“Always the hero.”
“You’re finished.”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“You’re just beginning to understand.”
Caldwell entered behind her.
He looked injured.
But alive.
“What do you want?”
My mother answered.
“The company.”
“You already lost it.”
“Not yet.”
She pointed the gun at Amy.
“You will transfer control tonight.”
I stared at my wife.
She shook her head.
“Connor, don’t.”
My mother laughed.
“She still thinks you can save her.”
I stepped forward.
“You want the company?”
“Yes.”
“Then you need me.”
“Unfortunately.”
“What about Frederick?”
“He’s with the authorities.”
“And Amy?”
My mother’s smile disappeared.
“She was always the obstacle.”
I noticed something.
Amy’s wrist.
She was rubbing the rope against a sharp corner of the table.
Trying to cut it.
She looked at me.
One second.
Two.
Then she dropped her shoulder.
The rope slipped.
I moved.
Mason tackled Caldwell.
I charged my mother.
The gun fired.
The bullet hit the ceiling.
Amy ran.
My mother grabbed her.
I reached them.
For a few seconds, we struggled.
Then the police stormed through the door.
My mother froze.
Caldwell was arrested.
Amy collapsed into my arms.
I held her.
She whispered, “I knew you’d come.”
I closed my eyes.
For the first time in months, I let myself believe it was over.
It wasn’t.
The police searched the mansion.
They found a second basement.
Inside was a safe.
The combination was my father’s birthday.
Inside the safe was the missing evidence.
But there was also a second trust document.
I read it.
My father had established another beneficiary.
Not me.
Not my mother.
Amy.
If Connor is ever threatened or incapacitated, control of the company shall immediately pass to Amy Bradley.
I stared at the page.
My father had anticipated everything.
My mother had spent years trying to make Amy look unstable.
But if Amy controlled the company…
My mother had been fighting the wrong war.
We returned home at sunrise.
For the first time, the house felt like ours again.
Then the police found something in the driveway.
A box.
No fingerprints.
Inside was a newspaper clipping.
My father’s obituary.
And beneath it was a handwritten sentence.
YOU STILL DON’T KNOW WHO ORDERED HIS DEATH.
Amy looked at me.
I looked at Mason.
The police officer asked, “Do you know what this means?”
I slowly shook my head.
“No.”
My phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
A distorted voice spoke.
“Your mother was never the mastermind.”
I froze.
“Who are you?”
The voice laughed.
Then said:
“Ask your father’s business partner what happened the week before the accident.”
The call ended.
Mason whispered:
“Connor…”
I looked at him.
“What?”
He stared at the obituary.
May you like
“Your father didn’t have one business partner.”
“He had two.”
