Chapter 2 - The Secret My Father Took to His GraveThe police entered from three different doors.
Guests screamed.
Vanessa stumbled backward.
Richard stood motionless.
I could barely hear the officers over the pounding in my ears.
Your father was supposed to die too.
Those words kept repeating inside my head.
My father.
The company.
The stolen money.
The forged loans.
The accounts Richard opened using corporate information.
Everything suddenly looked different.
My attorney, Michael Grant, touched my shoulder.
“Abigail, we need to leave.”
I shook my head.
“No.”
He frowned.
“Richard just made a serious allegation.”
“I need to know if it's true.”
“Not here.”
I looked at Richard.
His hands were being cuffed.
But his expression was strangely calm.
He watched me like he knew something I didn't.
Then he smiled.
That smile haunted me.
Outside, snow had begun falling again.
I was escorted through the side entrance.
Grace slept inside her carrier.
I kept one hand on her blanket.
My whole body was trembling.
Not from cold.
From a memory.
Three months before I disappeared, my father had called me at midnight.
I had been half asleep.
“Abigail.”
His voice had sounded different.
Tense.
“Dad?”
“Don't trust Richard.”
I sat upright.
“What happened?”
Silence.
Then he said something I had never forgotten.
“If anything happens to me, look behind the painting.”
I laughed nervously.
“What painting?”
“The one your mother hated.”
Then the call ended.
Two weeks later, my father died in what everyone called a heart attack.
I had blamed grief.
Richard had handled everything.
The funeral.
The lawyers.
The company.
The paperwork.
Even my father's safe.
I had never questioned him.
Now I wanted to scream.
I turned toward Michael.
“My father's death.”
He looked at me carefully.
“What about it?”
“Investigate it.”
He said nothing.
“I want the autopsy reopened.”
“Abigail—”
“Please.”
He finally nodded.
The next morning, he called me.
His voice was unusually quiet.
“We found something.”
I sat at my kitchen table with Grace sleeping beside me.
“What?”
“There is no record of your father's final medical evaluation.”
“What does that mean?”
“His death certificate says natural causes. But the hospital file is incomplete.”
I frowned.
“Can that happen?”
“Not normally.”
“What else?”
A pause.
“Someone accessed his medical records six days before his death.”
“Who?”
“Your husband.”
My fingers tightened around the phone.
Richard.
Again.
I looked at Grace.
Her tiny fist rested beside her cheek.
“How?”
“That is what we're trying to determine.”
Three hours later, Michael arrived at my apartment with a box.
He placed it on the table.
“This was found inside the walls of your father's old study.”
I stared at it.
“Behind a painting?”
He nodded.
My heart stopped.
Inside the box were ledgers.
Photographs.
USB drives.
Letters.
And one envelope with my name written across it.
My hands shook as I opened it.
Dear Abigail,
If you're reading this, I am either dead or unable to protect you.
I need you to understand something.
Richard didn't marry you for love.
He married you because of the company.
My heart pounded.
I read faster.
Three years ago, Richard approached me with a proposal.
He wanted access to our foreign accounts.
I refused.
So he found another way.
The bottom half of the letter had been ripped away.
I looked at Michael.
“Where's the rest?”
“We don't know.”
I opened the first ledger.
Names.
Dates.
Amounts.
Secret payments.
Political donations.
Shell companies.
Private accounts.
And then I saw Richard's name.
Not once.
Not twice.
Hundreds of times.
Michael leaned over the table.
“This is enormous.”
But I was staring at another page.
A transfer dated three days before my father's death.
Five million dollars.
Recipient: R. Carter Holdings.
Then a note.
ADVANCE PAYMENT.
FOR THE WITNESS.
My blood ran cold.
“What witness?”
Michael didn't answer.
Instead, he opened one of the photographs.
It showed my father outside a warehouse.
Standing beside two men.
One was Richard.
The other man was unfamiliar.
Until I turned the photograph over.
A name was written on the back.
Thomas Reed.
I searched the name.
Michael stopped me.
“I already did.”
“And?”
“He's dead.”
I stared at him.
“When?”
“Six weeks ago.”
My heart dropped.
“How?”
Michael's expression darkened.
“Car accident.”
Another coincidence.
Another dead man.
Another six weeks.
I looked at Grace.
Someone had been cleaning up witnesses.
And suddenly I understood why Richard had been so calm.
He wasn't afraid of what I had found.
He was afraid of what I hadn't found yet.
That night, I couldn't sleep.
At 2:13 a.m., Grace began crying.
I picked her up.
“Mommy's here.”
Then I heard something.
A soft sound from the hallway.
A floorboard.
I froze.
My apartment was dark.
I reached for my phone.
Another sound.
Closer.
I slowly walked toward the living room.
The front door was locked.
Then my phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
A message appeared.
DON'T LOOK FOR THE REST OF THE LETTER.
I stared at the screen.
Another message arrived.
HE WASN'T THE ONLY ONE WHO BETRAYED YOU.
I swallowed.
Who?
Another message.
ASK YOUR FATHER ABOUT YOUR MOTHER.
I stopped breathing.
My mother had died when I was eight.
Or so I had always believed.
Then the lights went out.
May you like
And from somewhere inside my apartment, a man's voice whispered:
“Hello, Abigail.”
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