Chapter 6 - THE BROTHER WHO KNEW TOO MUCHFriday morning began with a wedding dress fitting.
It ended with Detective Mitchell telling me that my brother had tried to contact a potential witness in my mother's death.
In between, I learned exactly how far my father was willing to go to protect himself.
My wedding planner, Sofia Bennett, arrived at my apartment carrying garment bags, a clipboard, and enough nervous energy to power a small city.
“Okay,” she announced, “we have forty-eight hours, one injured bride, a florist who thinks cream and ivory are the same color, and a caterer who keeps calling me Sophia.”
I smiled for the first time in days.
“Sounds manageable.”
Sofia looked at my sling.
“Tell me you're kidding.”
“I wish.”
She exhaled.
“Fine. We're adapting. The dress can be adjusted, the veil can cover the strap in photographs, and nobody is going to make you hold a bouquet with that arm.”
She had no idea what had happened.
I hadn't told most of my friends.
Not because I was ashamed.
Because every time I explained the assault, I had to relive the moment my father chose Ryan over me.
And I wasn't sure how many times I could survive hearing myself say it.
Sofia helped me into my gown.
It was a beautiful ivory satin dress with a fitted bodice, a soft train, and one shoulder draped with delicate fabric.
Originally, I'd chosen it because it reminded me of something my mother wore in an old photograph.
Now the draping served another purpose.
It concealed my sling.
I looked at myself in the mirror.
For a moment, I barely recognized the woman staring back.
My eyes were tired.
There were bruises along my upper arm.
But the dress was beautiful.
And I was still getting married.
Sofia adjusted the fabric.
“There,” she whispered. “Perfect.”
I smiled weakly.
“Almost.”
She met my eyes in the mirror.
“Emily, what's going on?”
The question was so gentle that something in me broke.
I told her everything.
About Ryan.
About the garage.
About Dad.
About the hospital.
When I finished, Sofia was crying.
She took my good hand.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“I didn't want to ruin the wedding.”
She stared at me.
“Emily, your family hurting you does not make you responsible for ruining anything.”
I swallowed hard.
“That's what Nathan keeps saying.”
“Then marry that man as fast as possible.”
I laughed through my tears.
Sofia grew serious.
“Do you still want your father walking you down the aisle?”
The question stunned me.
I had barely considered it.
Dad had walked beside me through every wedding rehearsal.
He'd insisted on giving a speech.
He'd demanded the front-row seats.
He'd even asked Nathan's parents to reimburse him for part of the rehearsal dinner because, according to him, he had spent a fortune raising me.
I looked at my reflection.
“No,” I whispered.
Sofia waited.
“I don't want him walking me down the aisle.”
“Then he won't.”
“But he'll make a scene.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“Honey, I'm a wedding planner. I have handled drunk uncles, screaming ex-wives, missing rings, and a groom who fainted into a chocolate fountain.”
Despite everything, I laughed.
“I can handle one entitled father.”
I hesitated.
“And my brother?”
Sofia's expression hardened.
“Him too.”
That afternoon, Nathan and I met Detective Mitchell at a quiet conference room in the police department.
She was a tall woman with dark hair and the kind of steady voice that made every word feel deliberate.
Officer Price had referred the assault investigation to her because of the financial allegations and threatening messages.
Detective Mitchell began with the most recent development.
“Your brother has been contacting people connected to your father's former business.”
I frowned.
“How do you know?”
“We've interviewed several individuals as part of our investigation. One reported receiving an unexpected call from Ryan.”
“Who?”
“Walter Briggs.”
My heart slammed against my ribs.
“You found him?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“He's living outside Wilmington.”
I leaned forward.
“Did he tell you what happened to my mother?”
Detective Mitchell looked at Nathan.
Then back at me.
“He has agreed to speak with investigators. I can't disclose the details of an ongoing interview, but I can tell you that certain historical records are being reviewed.”
My hands trembled.
“Did Ryan threaten him?”
“Walter reported that Ryan told him to stay away from Charleston and stop answering questions.”
I stared.
My brother wasn't simply reckless.
He was actively trying to stop someone from talking.
“Does that mean Ryan knows something?”
“We can't conclude that yet.”
I nodded.
Detective Mitchell continued.
“We also want to discuss the video surveillance at your father's house.”
I blinked.
“Surveillance?”
“Are there cameras in the garage?”
I thought back.
Dad installed a security system two years earlier after Ryan claimed someone had stolen tools from the property.
There were cameras near the driveway.
Along the side entrance.
And one mounted above the garage door.
“Yes,” I said slowly.
“Do you know whether they record continuously?”
“I think so.”
“Who controls the system?”
“Dad.”
Detective Mitchell made a note.
“We're working to preserve and obtain any relevant recordings.”
I felt a sudden surge of hope.
“If the camera caught Ryan pushing me—”
“It could be important evidence,” she said.
Nathan squeezed my hand.
For the first time since Tuesday, I felt that the truth might not depend entirely on my word against theirs.
After the meeting, we stopped at a small café.
Nathan ordered soup for me because my stomach was still unsettled.
I was halfway through when my phone rang.
Ryan.
I stared at the screen.
Nathan noticed.
“Don't answer.”
I let it go silent.
Seconds later, a voicemail appeared.
Against my better judgment, I listened.
Ryan sounded drunk.
“Emily, pick up your damn phone. Dad says you're acting weird. We need that money before Saturday. You don't understand what's happening.”
A pause.
Then:
“You think I'm the bad guy? You have no idea what Dad's done.”
The message ended.
I played it again.
Nathan frowned.
“What does he mean?”
“I don't know.”
My phone buzzed.
Another voicemail.
This time Ryan sounded panicked.
“Look, forget the money for a second. If anyone asks about Walter Briggs, you don't know anything. Understand? You don't know anything.”
He lowered his voice.
“Dad says Walter's lying. Whatever he tells you, don't believe it.”
I looked at Nathan.
“He knows we're investigating.”
Nathan nodded.
“Send it to Mitchell.”
I forwarded both messages.
Then I sat very still.
I had spent years resenting Ryan for being selfish.
But now I was beginning to wonder whether he was something even more dangerous.
A man who had grown up watching our father escape consequences.
A man who believed violence was acceptable because he'd never paid for it.
And a man who might know something about our mother's death.
That evening, Margaret came to our apartment.
She carried a cardboard box sealed with yellowed tape.
“I found this in storage,” she said.
Inside were old photographs, business records, and several cassette tapes.
I stared at them.
“What are these?”
“Your mother sometimes recorded business meetings. She said it helped her keep accurate notes.”
I looked at Margaret.
“Are you saying there's a recording of Dad?”
“I don't know what's on all of them.”
We found an old cassette player in a neighborhood electronics repair shop.
Nathan connected it to our speakers.
The first tape contained ordinary business discussions.
The second was mostly static.
The third began with my mother's voice.
“It's October fourteenth. Meeting with Charles Whitmore regarding unauthorized withdrawals from company accounts.”
My breath caught.
Her voice.
For the first time in twenty-six years, I could hear my mother speak.
Not in a dream.
Not in a memory.
Real.
Clear.
Alive in that moment.
“Charles,” she said, “I know about the transfers.”
My father's younger voice answered.
“You don't understand what you're looking at.”
“I understand that nearly a million dollars is missing.”
“It's an investment.”
“Then why did you hide it?”
Silence.
My mother continued.
“I'm taking the records to Samuel tomorrow.”
A chair scraped.
Then Dad said:
“If you try to take this company from me, you'll regret it.”
I pressed my hand against my mouth.
My mother didn't sound frightened.
She sounded furious.
“It's not your company, Charles.”
His voice grew louder.
“Everything I built—”
“You built it with my family's money!”
Then came a loud bang.
I flinched.
Nathan reached for me.
My mother's voice returned.
“Don't touch me.”
The room fell completely silent.
I stared at the speaker.
She had said the same words I said to Ryan in the garage.
Don't touch me.
And just like Ryan, my father had apparently ignored them.
The recording continued.
“You think those children are going anywhere with you?” Dad demanded.
“I will do whatever I have to do to keep them safe.”
“You'll never take my son away.”
My stomach twisted.
My mother answered:
“Emily is your daughter too.”
A long pause.
Then my father laughed.
It was a cold, ugly sound.
“Emily's yours,” he said. “Ryan is mine.”
I stopped breathing.
There it was.
The truth I'd spent my life trying not to see.
Even before my mother died, my father had divided us.
He had chosen Ryan.
And I had inherited the punishment for being my mother's daughter.
The tape ended a few minutes later.
I sat motionless.
Margaret began crying quietly.
Nathan held my hand.
And I realized something that terrified me.
My father's cruelty hadn't begun after Mom died.
It had started while she was alive.
I finally understood why she'd been trying so desperately to protect me.
At 10:43 that night, my phone received a message from an unknown number.
It contained a photograph.
My father's black Mercedes was parked outside my apartment building.
The photograph had been taken less than five minutes earlier.
Below it were four words.
Stop before someone dies.
Nathan immediately called Detective Mitchell.
Officers came to our building.
They checked the parking lot.
The car was gone.
But when one officer examined the security footage from the lobby, he noticed someone standing near the elevator.
A man wearing a baseball cap.
He had entered through the garage.
Waited beside the mailboxes.
Then left.
I leaned closer to the screen.
Something about the way he walked was familiar.
The officer paused the recording.
The man turned his head.
For one brief second, the camera captured his face.
It wasn't Ryan.
It wasn't Dad.
But I knew him.
I had seen him at every Thanksgiving dinner for as long as I could remember.
He was my father's attorney.
Graham Foster.
The same man who had handled my mother's estate.
The same man who had told me, when I turned twenty-five, that there was nothing more for me to inherit.
And the same man whose signature appeared beside mine on the suspicious property release.
Nathan looked at the image.
Then at me.
“Emily?”
I swallowed.
May you like
“My father didn't do this alone.”
And suddenly, the investigation became much bigger than any of us had imagined.
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