Chapter 5 - My Father's Last FileMy father's death had always been simple.
Heart attack.
At least, that was what everyone had told me.
He had been sixty-one.
Overworked.
Stressed.
A doctor had signed the certificate.
There was no funeral mystery.
No police investigation.
No scandal.
Just grief.
Now Martin was telling me everything I believed about that night had been carefully manufactured.
"I need the medical records," I said.
"They're sealed."
"Then unseal them."
"It's not that simple."
"Martin."
He looked at me.
"You asked me to activate the trust protections. I did."
"Then protect me."
He nodded.
"I'll get the records."
Two hours later, we had them.
My father's bloodwork.
Toxicology.
Hospital notes.
I read every page.
Nothing obvious.
Until I reached the final laboratory report.
One value was circled.
An abnormal enzyme level.
Martin pointed to the margin.
"See this?"
"What?"
"The lab technician added a handwritten note."
I leaned closer.
Possible exposure to industrial solvent.
My pulse quickened.
"Could that cause a heart attack?"
"Depending on the substance."
"What substance?"
"We don't know."
"Then find out."
Martin looked at me for several seconds.
"You really are your father's daughter."
That afternoon, I called an independent toxicologist.
She reviewed the report.
Then asked for the original sample chain.
It took six hours to get an answer.
"The sample was compromised."
I stared at her.
"How?"
"There was a break in the chain of custody."
"When?"
"Between the hospital and the state lab."
"Meaning?"
"Someone accessed it."
I thanked her and ended the call.
The room was silent.
I thought about Eleanor.
Julian.
Victor.
Roland Mercer.
My uncle.
Everyone suddenly had a reason.
But motives were not evidence.
And I had learned something from my father.
Evidence lived in details.
Paper trails.
Bank records.
Timestamps.
Documents people forgot existed.
I opened the old family computer.
It had been boxed in storage for almost two years.
I turned it on.
The screen flickered.
There was one folder.
PASSWORD REQUIRED.
I tried my birthday.
Nothing.
My father's birthday.
Nothing.
Our family company registration number.
Nothing.
Then I remembered something.
Every year, my father sent me a handwritten birthday card.
Each card contained a strange sentence.
I had always thought it was sentimental.
Now I realized they were passwords.
I tried the sentence from my twenty-third birthday.
The folder opened.
There were hundreds of files.
Most were ordinary.
Taxes.
Contracts.
Insurance.
Board minutes.
Then I saw a folder titled:
LAST RESORT.
My heart began pounding.
Inside was a video.
My father appeared on screen.
He looked tired.
Not sick.
Afraid.
"Clara."
I froze.
"If you're watching this, then something has gone wrong."
He looked away from the camera.
"I don't know who I can trust anymore."
I leaned closer.
"Your mother is not involved."
My breath caught.
My mother had died when I was twelve.
"If I die suddenly, look at Building Four."
He paused.
"Do not trust Edmund."
My uncle.
"Do not trust the board."
Another pause.
"And do not trust the attorney who tells you everything is safe."
I looked at Martin.
He stared at the screen.
My father's expression changed.
"There is one man behind this."
He leaned closer.
"His name is Roland Mercer."
The video ended.
Neither of us spoke.
Finally Martin said, "How long have you had this?"
"I found it today."
He stood.
"Then Mercer knows about it."
"How?"
"Because your father made these recordings for a reason."
My phone rang.
Julian.
I didn't answer.
It rang again.
Then a text appeared.
I know you found the video.
I stared at the screen.
Another message arrived.
Tell Martin the truth.
I looked at him.
"What truth?"
His face became unreadable.
"Clara..."
"You knew?"
"No."
"Then why is he telling me to ask you?"
Martin sat down.
"There is something your father never told you."
"What?"
"Three days before he died, he changed the beneficiary structure of the trust."
"To whom?"
"To you."
I laughed bitterly.
"I already owned the properties."
"No."
He opened his briefcase.
"He changed something else."
I stared at the document.
At the bottom was a beneficiary name.
Clara Whitmore.
Percentage:
100%.
Then I saw the asset description.
And my breath stopped.
It wasn't Building Four.
It wasn't the commercial properties.
It wasn't even money.
It was control over something called Mercer Infrastructure Holdings.
I looked at Martin.
"What is this?"
May you like
He answered quietly.
"Your father secretly owned a controlling interest in Roland Mercer's company."
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