Chapter 3 - THE VIDEO MY FATHER LEFT BEHINDMy father's study smelled exactly as I remembered.
Leather.
Cedarwood.
And the faint scent of the peppermint candies he kept in a crystal bowl beside his desk.
I hadn't been inside that room in almost three years.
The walls were lined with books, framed military photographs, and pictures of the children Dad had supported through his foundation.
One photograph stood apart from the others.
It showed a little girl sitting on his shoulders, laughing so hard her eyes were closed.
Me.
Age five.
At the Fourth of July parade.
I picked it up.
For a second, the enormous room disappeared.
I could almost hear his voice.
Hold on tight, Abby. I've got you.
I pressed the frame against my chest.
Behind me, Thomas quietly shut the door.
"Before we begin," he said, "I need to explain something important."
I turned.
"Was my father hiding the truth about my parents?"
Thomas took a long breath.
"Arthur believed that some information concerning their deaths was deliberately withheld from the original investigation."
"By whom?"
"We don't know for certain."
"You've had twenty-eight years."
"Arthur pursued leads for decades, Abigail. Some were promising. Others collapsed."
"Why didn't he tell me?"
"Because he couldn't distinguish evidence from suspicion, and he didn't want you growing up terrified."
I looked down at the photograph.
"He should have let me decide."
"Perhaps."
That single word made me trust Thomas more than any rehearsed defense would have.
He didn't pretend my father had been perfect.
He simply acknowledged that my father had made choices.
Choices I now had to live with.
Thomas inserted the flash drive into my father's computer.
A video appeared.
Dad sat behind the same mahogany desk.
He wore his favorite blue sweater.
His hair was thinner than I remembered.
And he looked terribly tired.
I covered my mouth.
"Hello, Peanut."
My knees gave way.
I lowered myself into the chair opposite the screen.
Nobody had called me Peanut since Dad died.
"If you're watching this, then I'm not around to give you one of my terrible lectures."
He smiled.
God, that smile.
"I know you hate those lectures. You always pretended to take notes, and I always pretended not to notice you drawing little airplanes on the paper."
A sob escaped me.
Thomas turned away, giving me what privacy he could.
Dad continued.
"First, I need you to know something. I loved you from the moment I met you. Not because I felt sorry for you. Not because I wanted to look generous. And certainly not because you needed rescuing."
His voice caught.
"I loved you because you were my daughter."
I pressed my fingers against my lips.
"If anyone ever tells you otherwise, Abigail, I want you to remember that."
He paused.
Then his expression changed.
"Now comes the difficult part."
I straightened.
"You know I built Whitmore Development from almost nothing. What you don't know is that, in those early years, I made mistakes."
He swallowed.
"One of those mistakes involved a business partner named Victor Langford."
Thomas shifted beside me.
I glanced at him.
He said nothing.
Dad continued.
"Victor was brilliant. Ambitious. Ruthless. At first, I mistook ruthlessness for determination."
A photograph appeared beside the video.
Three men stood outside a construction site.
One was my father.
Another was a younger man with dark hair and a sharp smile.
Victor Langford.
The third man made my heart stop.
He had familiar blue eyes.
A crooked smile.
And a small scar beneath his chin.
I'd seen that face before.
In the only photograph I owned of my biological father.
"His name was Michael Rose," Dad said.
I gripped the armrest.
"Your biological father worked as Whitmore Development's chief financial auditor. He discovered that Victor had been secretly moving investor money through fraudulent shell companies."
My mouth went dry.
"Michael came to me with evidence. He begged me to go to the authorities immediately."
Dad looked down.
"I hesitated."
Silence stretched.
"I was afraid of losing the company. Hundreds of people depended on us. I told myself I needed one more week to investigate."
He looked directly into the camera.
"Three days later, Michael and your mother, Sarah, died."
I couldn't move.
The world narrowed to my father's face.
"Their car went off a mountain road during heavy rain. Police ruled it an accident. But Michael had called me the previous evening and said someone was following him."
Dad's eyes filled.
"I've spent twenty-eight years wondering whether my hesitation cost your parents their lives."
A tear slid down my cheek.
I barely felt it.
"Arthur," I whispered.
He couldn't hear me.
Of course he couldn't.
Yet I wanted desperately for him to know I was there.
That I was listening.
That I still loved him.
"Victor denied everything," Dad continued. "And because the original financial evidence disappeared after the accident, I couldn't prove what Michael had discovered."
The screen shifted to another photograph.
Victor Langford stood beside Diane.
My stomach dropped.
They were attending a charity gala.
Diane's hand rested on his arm.
The image was dated six years before my father died.
"Diane remained in contact with Victor against my wishes," Dad said. "For years, I believed it was harmless social familiarity."
He paused.
"I was wrong."
Thomas sat down slowly.
Dad leaned toward the camera.
"Abigail, if Diane has tried to exclude you from the family or convince you that you were never wanted, then I failed to protect you as completely as I should have."
I began crying harder.
"I noticed more than you thought. But not enough. I allowed my business obligations to keep me away when I should have been home."
He removed his glasses.
"And for that, sweetheart, I am so sorry."
I wanted to tell him he didn't need to apologize.
But part of me knew he did.
I'd spent years pretending that Diane's cruelty wasn't important because Dad loved me.
I'd hidden the worst incidents from him.
And he'd sometimes accepted my silence as reassurance.
We had both made mistakes.
The video continued.
"Several months ago, I discovered that Brandon had been negotiating a loan with a company connected to Victor Langford."
Dad's expression hardened.
"I froze Brandon's authority over certain corporate assets and ordered an internal audit."
Thomas nodded grimly.
"He also activated the trust's protective provisions," he explained.
Dad continued.
"I transferred additional assets into protected arrangements years ago, with independent administration, because I feared that Victor might eventually try to take back what he couldn't steal legally."
He held up a folder.
"Thomas has the complete records. But the most important thing you should know is this: the lake house isn't the only property associated with the trust."
My pulse quickened.
"What else?"
The video didn't answer immediately.
Instead, Dad smiled sadly.
"I never wanted you to measure your worth in dollars, Abby. That's why I didn't tell you. I wanted you to build your own life. And you did."
He nodded.
"I'm proud of the officer you've become. More than I can say."
For the first time that evening, I smiled through my tears.
Then Dad said:
"The trust owns thirty-eight percent of Whitmore Development's voting shares, along with several other properties and investments. You are its sole beneficial owner, and upon my death, Thomas becomes successor trustee with instructions to begin preparing you for an eventual controlling role in its administration."
I stared at the screen.
Thirty-eight percent.
Whitmore Development was worth billions.
My father had given me an inheritance beyond anything I had ever imagined.
But the money was suddenly the least important part.
Because the man responsible for the suspicious transactions was still alive.
And apparently still connected to my family.
Dad leaned closer.
"One final thing, Peanut."
The video seemed to grow darker.
"There's a red notebook hidden inside the old grandfather clock in the upstairs library."
I blinked.
That clock had belonged to my grandfather.
It hadn't worked in fifteen years.
"Find it before anyone else does," Dad said.
His voice dropped.
"Michael Rose gave me that notebook two days before he died. I believed it had been destroyed, but I found it again during a renovation last spring."
My heartbeat thundered.
"I don't know whether it contains enough to prove what happened. I was arranging for independent forensic analysis when my health began failing."
He stared into the camera.
"If Victor learns that notebook still exists, he may come looking for it."
The recording ended with Dad smiling.
"I love you, Peanut. No matter how big the world gets, there will always be a place for you at my table."
The screen went black.
I sat there crying.
For what felt like an eternity.
Then Thomas gently touched my shoulder.
"Abigail?"
I wiped my face.
"We need to find the notebook."
He nodded.
"Yes."
I stood.
Before we reached the door, my phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
One message.
YOUR FATHER SHOULD HAVE LEFT THE PAST BURIED.
A second message appeared.
CHECK THE LIBRARY BEFORE YOUR MOTHER DOES.
I looked at Thomas.
"Someone knows."
His face tightened.
Then we heard it.
A heavy crash from upstairs.
Followed by hurried footsteps.
Thomas moved toward the door.
May you like
And from somewhere near the library came Chloe's terrified scream.
"Mom! There's a man in the house!"
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