Chapter 5 - The Morning My Father DiedThe garage camera had been removed.
Not disconnected.
Removed.
Wires hung from the ceiling where the unit once sat.
"Who renovated the garage?" Eleanor asked.
Vanessa crossed her arms.
"Luca."
"Of course he did."
I searched the cabinets in the hidden room while Eleanor photographed everything.
Old invoices.
Tax records.
Construction contracts.
Then, behind a false drawer, I found a small network storage device.
Dad had been an obsessive backup person.
Receipts.
Photos.
Business records.
He trusted duplicates more than memories.
The device was password protected.
I knew the password by instinct.
MARIA1979.
Mom's first name and the year he met her.
It worked.
Inside were folders from security cameras around the property.
Front entrance.
Kitchen.
Driveway.
Garage.
The final garage video was dated the morning Dad died.
6:41 a.m.
I clicked.
Dad's car sat inside.
At 6:44, Luca entered.
Alone.
He opened the passenger door.
Leaned inside.
Then opened Dad's leather work bag.
Removed something.
Put something else inside.
At 6:47, he walked toward the workbench and picked up Dad's stainless-steel travel mug.
He unscrewed the lid.
His back blocked the camera.
His hands moved.
Then he replaced the mug beside Dad's bag.
At 6:52, Dad entered.
He and Luca spoke.
No audio.
Dad looked angry.
Luca gestured.
Dad shook his head.
Then Dad picked up the mug.
He drank.
I stopped breathing.
"Keep watching," Eleanor said.
At 6:57, Luca left.
Dad remained.
At 7:02, he gripped the car door.
At 7:03, he stumbled.
At 7:04, he collapsed.
My hand covered my mouth.
At 7:05, Luca came back.
Not running.
Walking.
He stood over Dad.
Then knelt.
Checked his pulse.
And did something I would see in nightmares for the rest of my life.
Nothing.
He did absolutely nothing.
For nearly three minutes.
No CPR.
No phone.
No help.
He just watched Dad struggle on the floor.
Then he finally pulled out his phone.
According to the official record, emergency services were called at 7:09.
Dad was pronounced dead at the hospital.
I closed the laptop.
"I need air."
I made it to the stairs before vomiting.
Eleanor remained downstairs.
She gave me ten minutes.
When I returned, she spoke carefully.
"The footage is serious."
"He killed him."
"It shows suspicious conduct and delayed aid. It does not show what he put into the cup."
"He changed Dad's medication too."
"Which strengthens the case."
"Why wasn't there an autopsy?"
"Your mother opposed one."
My anger flared.
"Why?"
"According to your brother, your father had a documented heart condition, and your mother didn't want him 'cut open unnecessarily.'"
"According to my brother."
"Exactly."
I sat down.
Vanessa had gone upstairs.
"I spent six years believing I missed a natural death."
"You couldn't have known."
"I should have come home."
Eleanor's gaze hardened.
"Do not give Luca responsibility for the crime and yourself responsibility for failing to predict it."
That silenced me.
"What now?"
"We call the district attorney."
"And Mom?"
"We keep her safe."
Before Eleanor could make the call, Vanessa screamed upstairs.
We ran.
The back door stood open.
Vanessa was staring at the driveway.
"What happened?"
"Luca."
"What?"
"He was outside."
My stomach dropped.
"Did he come inside?"
"I don't know."
We checked the house.
Nothing obviously missing.
Then I ran back downstairs.
The hidden room.
The network drive was gone.
"He took it."
Eleanor looked at the open compartment.
"Did you copy the video?"
I stared at her.
"No."
She closed her eyes.
"Please tell me we photographed the device."
"We photographed the room."
"Not enough."
I ran upstairs.
Luca had my father's evidence.
Again.
Then I remembered.
Dad never trusted a single copy.
The video files had once been transmitted from cameras.
Maybe somewhere else.
Cloud backup?
Another drive?
I searched the computer.
Nothing.
Eleanor called police anyway.
We provided what we had.
Still photographs.
The surviving hidden-room recorder.
Dad's bank box records.
The voice recordings.
The forged property documents.
But the garage video—the strongest evidence—was gone.
Then Luca called me.
"You really never learn."
I put him on speaker.
"Where are you?"
"Safe."
"You stole Dad's drive."
"My drive."
"It's evidence."
"So you're accusing me now?"
"You stood over him."
Silence.
Vanessa looked at me.
Eleanor lifted a finger, warning me not to reveal too much.
Then Luca laughed softly.
"Careful, Adriana. Grief does strange things to memory."
"We watched you."
"No. You watched an old video with no sound showing me trying to help my father."
"You didn't help him."
"That's your interpretation."
"You put something in his coffee."
"Did I?"
The confidence in his voice told me something.
He believed the only copy was gone.
So I lied.
"We already sent the footage to the police."
Silence.
One second.
Two.
Three.
"You shouldn't have done that."
There.
Fear.
"You killed him."
"No."
The answer came too fast.
"What did you put in his cup?"
"Nothing."
"Then why steal the drive?"
"I took property that belongs to me."
"It doesn't."
"It will."
He hung up.
Twenty minutes later, police arrived.
Detective Samuel Ortiz watched the hidden-room video, listened to several recordings, and took the forged deed.
"This is enough to start asking questions," he said.
"Start?"
I wanted to scream.
"My father may have been murdered."
"And if evidence supports that, we'll treat it accordingly."
"He took the video."
"You have no direct proof he took the drive."
"Vanessa saw him outside."
"Outside isn't inside."
I understood the caution.
I hated it anyway.
"What about my mother?"
"If you believe she's being drugged, the hospital records and APS report matter."
Then Ortiz asked me something unexpected.
"Who inherited your father's estate?"
"Mom received fifty percent. Luca and I each received twenty-five."
"How much was it worth?"
"After the company sale? Around twelve million."
"Where is your mother's share now?"
I stared.
"I don't know."
He nodded.
"Find out."
The answer took less than a day.
Eleanor subpoenaed records through an emergency civil proceeding over Mom's capacity and financial control.
Her six-million-dollar inheritance had fallen below nine hundred thousand.
Properties had been sold.
Investments liquidated.
Transfers made to corporations I had never heard of.
One corporation owned a luxury condo in Miami.
Another owned two cars.
A third had purchased a yacht.
All three were controlled by Luca.
But the biggest transfer was recent.
Three weeks before I came home, $1.8 million had left Mom's investment account.
It went to an entity called Northstar Holdings LLC.
Eleanor stared at the paperwork.
"Who owns Northstar?"
We searched.
The registration had been deliberately layered through another company.
Then another.
Eventually we found a name.
Not Luca.
Vanessa.
I looked across the table at her.
Her face went white.
"I've never heard of Northstar."
"It's registered to you."
"No."
She stood.
"I swear to God, Adriana."
Eleanor slid the document across.
"That's your signature."
Vanessa looked down.
Her hands began trembling.
"That's not my signature."
And suddenly we understood.
Luca hadn't only forged mine.
He had been collecting identities.
Using all of us.
Which meant Vanessa was no longer merely the woman standing beside him on the staircase.
May you like
She was potential evidence.
And possibly his next victim.
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