Chapter 5 - My Father's JournalBy the time police reached the house, someone had already been there.
The front door hung open.
A lamp was smashed in the foyer.
Drawers had been emptied.
Cabinet doors stood open.
The pantry looked as though a hurricane had passed through it.
Derek had been searching.
But he hadn't found the compartment.
Mom had given Bell precise instructions.
Third shelf.
Remove the molding.
Press the wooden peg beneath the left bracket.
A panel clicked open.
Behind it was a narrow hollow containing three objects.
Dad's journal.
A cassette recorder.
And a sealed envelope addressed to Mom.
Detective Bell put on gloves.
“Nothing gets opened until photographed.”
My hands shook.
Dad had been dead twenty-three years.
Yet seeing his handwriting on the brown leather notebook made him feel suddenly close.
I remembered his hands around mine, teaching me how to bait a fishing hook.
His terrible pancakes.
The way he sang Springsteen badly in the truck.
Then I remembered the argument.
You stole from your own mother.
Bell eventually allowed us to examine photocopies.
Dad's final entries were chaotic.
He had discovered that Derek had stolen checks from Mom.
Not enormous amounts.
A few hundred dollars.
Then thousands.
Derek had also forged Dad's signature to withdraw money from a college account.
Dad planned to send him to a residential school specializing in troubled teenagers.
Derek learned about it.
The final entry was written hours before Dad died.
Derek says he'll tell Margaret I hit him if I send him away. He doesn't understand what he's becoming. I love my son, but I am frightened by how easily he lies. Tomorrow I'm taking him to see Dr. Rosen again. Tonight I'll speak with him alone.
The next page was blank.
I put the copy down.
“This doesn't prove murder.”
“No,” Bell said.
“Then Mom was wrong?”
“Not necessarily.”
The cassette might matter.
But finding something capable of playing a twenty-three-year-old tape took time.
Meanwhile police searched for Derek and Vanessa.
Their passports were flagged.
Credit cards monitored.
Phones tracked.
At 6:15 p.m., Vanessa's phone pinged near Worcester.
Officers found the device beneath a gas-station trash bin.
They were intentionally disappearing.
Then Bell received another call.
Richard Vale had been found dead.
I stared at him.
“What?”
“Apparent suicide.”
“Apparent?”
“He left a note.”
The attorney who had helped steal Mom's house was now dead less than twenty-four hours after police began investigating.
Coincidence had officially left the building.
Bell told us to remain at the hospital under security.
That evening, technicians recovered audio from the cassette.
The recording lasted forty-seven minutes.
Most of it was quiet.
Dad had apparently placed the recorder in the cabin living room before speaking with Derek.
His reason became clear almost immediately.
Dad said:
“I'm recording this because I want you to hear yourself tomorrow.”
Then fifteen-year-old Derek laughed.
Their argument began.
Money.
Stealing.
Lies.
Dad threatened consequences.
Derek insulted him.
Then the argument changed.
Derek accused Dad of loving me more.
Dad denied it.
Derek shouted that everyone always chose Emily.
Then the recording became muffled.
A door opened.
Footsteps.
Dad said they were going outside.
The next thirteen minutes contained only room noise.
Then someone returned.
One person.
Footsteps crossed the cabin.
Heavy breathing.
A cupboard opened.
Something fell.
Then Derek's teenage voice said two words.
“Oh God.”
The recording ended.
Mom covered her mouth.
I couldn't move.
Bell replayed the final minute.
One set of footsteps.
No Dad.
But again, not proof of murder.
It could have been an accident.
A fight.
Dad falling from the dock.
Derek panicking.
Twenty-three years had passed.
Physical evidence would be almost impossible.
Then Natalie noticed something in the journal.
“What's Rosen?”
“The psychiatrist Dad mentioned.”
“Dr. Rosen.”
Bell searched databases.
Dr. Samuel Rosen had retired twelve years earlier.
Still alive.
Age eighty-one.
Living in Vermont.
By noon the next day, detectives spoke with him.
And Dr. Rosen remembered Derek.
Not every detail.
But enough.
Derek had been referred after multiple incidents involving theft, manipulation, and aggression.
Dr. Rosen had warned Dad that Derek needed intensive treatment.
Then, three days after Dad's death, Mom canceled all future appointments.
“I didn't cancel,” Mom said.
Bell frowned.
“Records say someone called.”
“I was barely functioning.”
“Could Derek have done it?”
Mom closed her eyes.
“Yes.”
The past was beginning to align with the present in ways none of us wanted.
But Derek remained missing.
Until Vanessa called me.
Unknown number.
11:38 p.m.
I answered.
“Emily?”
Her whisper was barely audible.
“Vanessa?”
“Don't say my name.”
I sat upright.
“Where are you?”
“I can't tell you.”
“Are you with Derek?”
Silence.
“Vanessa.”
“Yes.”
I motioned for the officer outside Mom's room.
He entered immediately.
“Are you safe?”
“No.”
Her breathing shook.
“He thinks Richard betrayed him.”
“Richard is dead.”
“I know.”
My skin prickled.
“How do you know?”
“I was there.”
Everything inside me stopped.
“What?”
Vanessa started crying.
“Derek went to Richard's house.”
I put the call on speaker.
The officer was already notifying Bell.
“What happened?”
“They argued.”
“Did Derek kill him?”
“I don't know.”
“Vanessa.”
“I was outside. I heard shouting. Then Derek came out alone.”
“How long later?”
“Twenty minutes.”
“And Richard?”
“He said Richard was fine.”
“He wasn't.”
She sobbed.
“I know.”
“Where are you?”
“I can't.”
“If Derek hurt Richard, he can hurt you.”
“I know.”
“Then tell us.”
A sound interrupted her.
A door.
Vanessa stopped breathing.
Then Derek's voice came faintly through the phone.
“Who are you talking to?”
The call disconnected.
Police attempted a trace.
The prepaid number last connected to a tower near Springfield.
Too broad.
But before Vanessa hung up, she had said something else.
Something none of us initially noticed.
She had whispered:
“He found your mother's other papers.”
What other papers?
Mom didn't know.
We searched the storage unit again.
Nothing.
Then I remembered the envelopes scattered across the little gold table the day I came home.
Bills.
Letters.
Documents.
One yellow envelope had seemed out of place.
Mom's handwriting.
I described it.
Her expression changed.
“Oh.”
“What?”
“I wrote you another letter.”
“Where?”
“I mailed it.”
“When?”
“Three weeks ago.”
I hadn't received anything.
“What was in it?”
Mom stared at me.
“A copy of my new will.”
I frowned.
“Why would Derek care?”
“Because I changed the beneficiary.”
“From who?”
Mom looked away.
“From you and Derek.”
“To whom?”
She took my hand.
“To a trust.”
A trust established to fund elder-abuse shelters.
Derek received nothing.
Neither did I.
I smiled despite everything.
“Good.”
But Mom didn't smile.
“Emily, the inheritance isn't what frightens him.”
“What does?”
“The statement I attached.”
My chest tightened.
“What statement?”
“I wrote down everything.”
Everything Derek had done.
The forged documents.
The medications.
The threats.
And one final accusation.
Mom had written that she believed Derek killed our father.
I stared at her.
“And you mailed that?”
“Yes.”
“To me?”
“Yes.”
“Three weeks ago?”
“Yes.”
Derek had apparently intercepted it.
Which meant he knew Mom had finally accused him in writing.
And now the attorney who helped him commit fraud was dead.
Vanessa was terrified.
Derek was missing.
That night Detective Bell received preliminary results from Richard Vale's autopsy.
His death wasn't suicide.
There were bruises around his throat.
The scene had been staged.
My brother was now wanted for questioning in a homicide.
At 2:11 a.m., my phone received a text.
No name.
No greeting.
Just a photograph.
Vanessa was sitting in a chair.
Her hands were tied.
Behind her was a wooden wall.
I recognized it instantly.
Pine Hollow.
Underneath the photograph was a message.
Bring Dad's journal. Come alone.
May you like
Then a second message appeared.
Or this time, someone really does drown.
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