Chapter 4 - Her Father’s Last SecretRachel did not cry when I told her.
That frightened me more than tears would have.
She simply sat on the couch, staring at nothing.
“My father left me money?”
“Apparently.”
“He told me there was nothing.”
Detective Brooks asked us to come downtown the following morning.
We left Lily with my sister, not Patricia.
Patricia was specifically forbidden from contacting Lily while the investigation into the incident continued.
She tried anyway.
Sixteen calls overnight.
Nine texts to Rachel.
Three to me.
I didn’t answer.
The last message said:
You are destroying this family over a child’s misunderstanding.
I took a screenshot.
At police headquarters, Brooks led us into a conference room.
He was about fifty, with gray at his temples and a habit of tapping a pen against his thumb when thinking.
He spread several documents across the table.
“Thomas Monroe died seven years ago.”
Rachel nodded.
“Pancreatic cancer.”
“His will left certain assets to Patricia. But he also established a separate investment account naming you as beneficiary.”
“How much?”
“At the time of his death, approximately two hundred eighty thousand dollars.”
Rachel looked at me.
“I never knew.”
“According to records, you received it.”
“I didn’t.”
Brooks slid over a document.
Her signature appeared on it.
Rachel laughed once.
A broken sound.
“That isn’t mine.”
“I suspected that.”
“What happened to the money?”
“It was moved through several accounts before eventually becoming part of what appears to be a private investment structure.”
“Whose?”
“We’re working on that.”
I leaned forward.
“And the money stolen from my company?”
“Some of it appears to enter the same network.”
I thought of Matthew.
“Was he involved?”
“We’re not ready to say.”
Rachel asked the question I knew she feared.
“My mother?”
Brooks paused.
“We have enough to continue investigating.”
Not enough to accuse.
Not yet.
He asked Rachel about her childhood.
About Patricia’s finances.
About Thomas.
Then he asked something unexpected.
“Did your father own property in Vermont?”
Rachel frowned.
“A cabin.”
“Where?”
“Near Stowe, I think. We went there when I was little.”
“What happened to it?”
“Mom said Dad sold it before he died.”
Brooks made a note.
“Why?”
“Because the safe-deposit key is connected to a bank branch in Vermont.”
Rachel stared at him.
The room went quiet.
After the interview, she insisted on visiting her father’s grave.
We had not been there in years.
Thomas Monroe rested beneath an oak tree in a quiet cemetery twenty minutes from town.
Rachel stood in front of the headstone.
THOMAS EDWARD MONROE.
Beloved Husband.
Devoted Father.
1958–2019.
She looked at the words for a long time.
“Devoted father,” she whispered.
“He was.”
“He knew what she was.”
I stayed quiet.
“He knew exactly what she was capable of, and he still left me alone with her.”
“He may have tried not to.”
She turned.
“What?”
“The account.”
Her expression changed.
“Maybe the money wasn’t just money.”
We drove home.
Lily came running into Rachel’s arms.
She seemed better.
Not normal.
But better.
Kids are strange that way.
They can experience terror at noon and ask for pancakes by dinner.
That evening, she sat between us on the couch drawing unicorns.
Then she suddenly said:
“Grandma has another house.”
Rachel looked up.
“What?”
“The little house.”
“What little house?”
“The one with snow.”
Rachel and I exchanged a glance.
“Tell us.”
“Grandma showed me pictures once. She said Grandpa used to take you there.”
My pulse jumped.
“The Vermont cabin?”
Lily shrugged.
“She said nobody knows she still has it.”
Rachel leaned closer.
“When did she tell you this?”
“At Christmas.”
“Why?”
“She was drinking wine.”
That sounded like Patricia.
Lily kept coloring.
“She said Grandpa hid things there because he didn’t trust banks.”
I stopped breathing.
“What things?”
“She didn’t say.”
Rachel’s eyes met mine.
The following morning, Brooks got a warrant for the safe-deposit box.
He called us that afternoon.
“You should come in.”
We arrived twenty minutes later.
A cardboard evidence box sat on the conference table.
Inside were dozens of envelopes.
Property records.
Photographs.
Copies of checks.
A handwritten journal.
And a video cassette.
Brooks handed Rachel an envelope.
Thomas had written her name across the front.
FOR RACHEL — IF PATRICIA EVER TELLS YOU I ABANDONED YOU.
Rachel’s hands shook as she opened it.
The letter inside was six pages long.
Her father had written it eleven days before his death.
Rachel read silently.
Halfway through, tears began falling.
I touched her shoulder.
She handed me the letter.
Thomas described years of financial manipulation.
Accounts Patricia opened in his name.
Debts she blamed on him.
Threats.
Blackmail.
He wrote that he had finally discovered Patricia was transferring family assets into a private company controlled by someone named Victor Hale.
He had hired an accountant to investigate.
Before he could act, he became too sick.
The final paragraph destroyed Rachel.
If you are reading this, Patricia has taken something from you that I could not protect. Do not confront her alone. Do not believe anything she tells you about yourself. She survives by making good people doubt what they know. You were always the best thing in my life. I am sorry I did not get you away from her sooner.
Rachel covered her mouth.
Brooks let the silence remain.
Finally, I asked:
“Who is Victor Hale?”
Brooks slid a photograph toward us.
A man in his sixties stood outside a courthouse.
Expensive suit.
Silver hair.
Confident smile.
“Financial adviser,” Brooks said.
Rachel stared.
“I know him.”
“From where?”
“He’s my mother’s attorney.”
Brooks nodded.
“And, according to state records, he’s been handling her financial affairs for twenty-three years.”
My phone vibrated.
Matthew.
I ignored it.
It rang again.
Then a text arrived.
DANNY CALL ME NOW. SOMEBODY BROKE INTO THE OFFICE.
We drove straight there.
The front glass door was shattered.
Filing cabinets had been ripped open.
Computers were gone.
Matthew stood beside a police cruiser.
“Security cameras?”
“Destroyed.”
“Backups?”
He shook his head.
“Whoever did this knew where the server was.”
Brooks surveyed the damage.
Then he noticed something on my desk.
A white envelope.
My name printed neatly across the front.
Inside was one photograph.
Lily.
Standing outside her elementary school.
Taken that morning.
On the back were seven handwritten words.
STOP DIGGING BEFORE SOMEONE ELSE GETS HURT.
I didn’t feel afraid.
I felt something colder.
Sharper.
I handed the photograph to Brooks.
“Find them.”
He looked at me.
“We will.”
I stared at my daughter’s picture.
“No.”
May you like
My voice barely sounded like mine.
“Find them before I do.”
Related Stories
