Chapter 12 - MARGARET'S CONFESSIONMargaret asked me to sit beside her.
The fire reflected in her eyes.
“Thomas.”
“Yes?”
“There is something else.”
I held her hand.
“What?”
She looked toward Daniel.
“Tell him.”
Daniel nodded.
Margaret took a slow breath.
“When Peter disappeared, I found the original ledger.”
I stared.
“You said you didn't have it.”
“I didn't.”
“What happened?”
“I gave it to Arthur.”
My mouth went dry.
“Why?”
“He promised he could expose Richard.”
Margaret lowered her head.
“But Arthur was frightened.”
“So he hid it.”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
She looked toward the burned estate.
“In our family home.”
I blinked.
“Our old home?”
“The one we sold twenty years ago.”
“That house was empty for years.”
“Not the basement.”
My heart pounded.
“What was down there?”
“A safe.”
“What's inside?”
Margaret looked at Daniel.
“The proof that Richard wasn't alone.”
Daniel's face changed.
“Mom.”
“I should have told you sooner.”
“Who else was involved?”
She shook her head.
“I never knew every name.”
“Then who?”
Margaret looked at me.
“Someone in our own family.”
Silence.
Daniel went still.
I thought of my father's old business.
My childhood.
Family friends.
People I had trusted.
“Who?”
Margaret whispered:
“Arthur's younger brother.”
My stomach dropped.
“Uncle Henry?”
“He worked with Richard.”
Daniel stared.
“But Uncle Henry died fifteen years ago.”
“Yes.”
“So how…”
“He had a son.”
I frowned.
“Michael?”
Margaret nodded.
Michael Whitmore.
My cousin.
The quiet one.
The family accountant.
The man who had handled several of our old trust documents.
I suddenly remembered something.
He had been at the wedding.
He had left early.
“He was here,” I said.
Margaret's eyes widened.
“What?”
“Michael.”
Daniel grabbed his phone.
No signal.
“Dad.”
“What?”
“Who is still inside the estate?”
The police chief answered.
“We accounted for everyone.”
“Everyone?”
He checked the list.
Then looked up.
“Your cousin Michael Whitmore never left.”
My heart froze.
“He's still inside?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“We don't know.”
A firefighter ran toward us.
“Chief!”
“What?”
“There's someone moving inside the north wing.”
“Who?”
“We couldn't identify him.”
Daniel looked at me.
“North wing.”
“The safe.”
We moved toward the burning structure.
The fire chief stopped us.
“Absolutely not.”
I pointed toward the building.
“My son is in there.”
“He'll die.”
“He may already be in there.”
Daniel looked at me.
“We have to go.”
Margaret stood.
“I am coming.”
“No.”
She took her cane.
“I have been running from this for twenty-five years.”
She looked at me.
“I'm finished running.”
We entered through a side door.
Smoke filled the hallway.
The old house groaned around us.
Daniel led us downstairs.
The safe room was behind a brick wall.
The door was open.
Inside stood Michael Whitmore.
Holding a stack of documents.
And a gun.
He looked at me.
“Thomas.”
I froze.
“Michael.”
He smiled.
“You always were the family favorite.”
“What are you doing?”
“Finishing what my father started.”
Daniel stepped in front of me.
Michael raised the gun.
“You have five minutes before the floor collapses.”
He looked at Margaret.
“You should have handed over the ledger twenty-five years ago.”
Margaret whispered:
“You killed Peter's evidence.”
“No.”
Michael smiled.
“I killed the people who could read it.”
May you like
Then he threw the documents into a metal barrel.
And lit them.
