Chapter 4 - THE WOMAN WHO KNEW TOO MUCHI stared at the threatening messages until the words blurred.
My father reached for the phone.
“Emily, may I?”
I handed it to him.
He read both messages without speaking.
Then he stood.
“I'm calling Detective Reeves.”
I grabbed his wrist.
“Daddy, who is doing this?”
He looked at me.
“I don't know.”
“Marcus is dead. Mom might have been murdered. Daniel knows something. Vanessa knows something. And now someone's threatening me.”
My voice broke.
“Why is this happening?”
My father knelt in front of me.
“Because somebody is afraid of what we might discover.”
I wanted to believe him.
But I had spent seven years married to a man I thought I knew.
I no longer trusted my judgment.
Maybe I'd missed every warning.
Maybe I had been living inside someone else's carefully constructed lie.
While my father called Reeves, I opened the message thread again.
The sender's number was hidden.
No profile photograph.
No identifying information.
Just those two sentences.
I took screenshots, then followed my father's advice and preserved the messages for investigators.
A few minutes later, Reeves called back and asked to speak with me directly.
His voice was steady.
“Mrs. Blackwood, I understand you've received threats.”
“Yes.”
“Please don't respond to them. We'll arrange to collect the messages and examine whatever records are available.”
“What happened to Marcus?”
A pause.
“I'm not able to share the full details yet.”
“Was he murdered?”
“His death is being investigated. We haven't established the cause.”
I closed my eyes.
“But you think it's suspicious.”
“I think we need to determine what happened before drawing conclusions.”
He asked where I intended to stay after leaving the hospital.
My father offered his estate in Connecticut, where a professional security team already worked.
Reeves agreed that being somewhere secure was sensible.
“Mrs. Blackwood,” he added, “there's something else you should know.”
My stomach tightened.
“What?”
“Before Marcus died, he attempted to contact a former employee of Whitmore Global.”
“Who?”
“A woman named Patricia Lane.”
I recognized the name.
She had worked for my father's foundation when I was a child.
I remembered her bringing homemade cookies to the office Christmas parties.
“Patricia knew my mother.”
“Yes.”
“Where is she?”
“We're trying to locate her.”
The call ended shortly afterward.
I sat there, holding the phone against my chest.
Every answer seemed to uncover another question.
By morning, Daniel's arrest was headline news.
My father's lawyers hadn't released a public statement.
Neither had I.
But Manhattan gossip moved faster than traffic.
Photographs of police officers outside our apartment building appeared online.
Entertainment websites repeated rumors about a billionaire's daughter and a prominent developer.
Someone leaked that Daniel was being investigated for assaulting his wife.
Within hours, strangers were arguing about my marriage without knowing me.
Some expressed sympathy.
Others accused me of using my father's money to punish an unfaithful husband.
One comment made me physically sick.
Twenty strikes? Sounds exaggerated. Rich women will do anything for attention.
I switched off my phone.
My father found me sitting by the window of the hospital room.
“Stop reading those things,” he said gently.
“They think I'm lying.”
“People who don't know you aren't entitled to decide what happened to you.”
I looked down.
“I kept telling myself it wasn't that bad.”
He sat beside me.
“What wasn't?”
“The first time Daniel shoved me, I said he was stressed.”
My father went still.
“The first time?”
I nodded.
“It happened about two years after our wedding. His company had lost a contract. He blamed me because I wouldn't ask you for money.”
My father listened without interrupting.
“He pushed me against the bedroom door. Then he cried and apologized.”
I swallowed.
“He bought me flowers the next morning.”
There had been other incidents.
Daniel grabbing my arm hard enough to leave bruises.
Shouting until I apologized for things I hadn't done.
Taking my phone when he thought I had embarrassed him.
Threatening to divorce me whenever I challenged his spending.
I had hidden each incident from my family.
I wanted my marriage to succeed.
Worse, I wanted to prove that my father had been wrong.
“I'm so sorry,” Arthur whispered.
I looked at him.
“Why are you apologizing?”
“Because I should have noticed.”
“Daddy, I worked hard to make sure you didn't.”
He took my hand.
“Then we're going to stop hiding things from each other.”
I nodded.
For the first time in years, the possibility of telling the truth felt like relief.
Two days later, I moved into my father's Connecticut estate.
The house hadn't changed much.
White stone walls.
Tall windows.
An enormous garden stretching toward a small lake.
My mother had planted roses beside the entrance.
They were still there.
My childhood bedroom looked almost exactly as I'd left it.
The pale blue walls.
The shelves filled with novels.
The photograph of Mom holding me at my tenth birthday party.
Someone had placed fresh flowers beside my bed.
I knew who.
My father's housekeeper, Mrs. Eleanor Brooks, had worked for our family for almost thirty years.
When she saw me, tears filled her eyes.
“Miss Emily.”
I stepped into her arms.
She held me carefully.
“My sweet girl,” she whispered. “You're home.”
Those three words broke me more completely than anything else.
I cried against her shoulder.
Not because I was weak.
Because I had forgotten what it felt like to be welcomed without conditions.
That afternoon, my father's attorney, Olivia Bennett, arrived.
Olivia was forty-one, practical, sharp, and famous for refusing to be intimidated by powerful businessmen.
She sat across from me in the library with several folders.
“Emily, I've reviewed the documents available so far.”
I nodded.
“Tell me.”
“First, Daniel's company is facing serious problems unrelated to your father's anger. Our compliance team had already identified apparent misrepresentations in financial statements, questionable transactions, and possible violations of loan agreements.”
“So Dad didn't just shut it down?”
“No. A lender can't simply destroy a company because its owner behaves terribly. But existing contractual rights and potential financial misconduct are another matter.”
I appreciated the distinction.
I didn't want my father manufacturing revenge.
I wanted the truth.
Olivia opened another folder.
“Second, your marriage gives Daniel no automatic ownership of your father's wealth. And we need to examine the assets acquired during your marriage before making any decisions.”
I exhaled.
“Good.”
“Third, the penthouse.”
She hesitated.
I looked up.
“What about it?”
“Daniel believes the residence is owned by Blackwood Development.”
“Yes.”
“It isn't.”
I frowned.
“Then who owns it?”
“An entity associated with Whitmore Global purchased the property before your marriage. Daniel's company has a lease.”
I stared at her.
“The penthouse isn't his?”
“No.”
I almost laughed.
For years, Daniel had reminded me that I lived under his roof.
He had told me I should be grateful for the luxury he provided.
All that time, the property had belonged to a company connected to my own family.
The irony was almost unbearable.
Then Olivia's expression changed.
“But that's not the most concerning discovery.”
She slid another document toward me.
It was a copy of a life insurance application.
My name was printed across the top.
INSURED: EMILY WHITMORE BLACKWOOD
I frowned.
“What is this?”
“A policy application naming Daniel as the proposed beneficiary.”
I stared at the amount.
Ten million dollars.
My mouth went dry.
“I never applied for that.”
Olivia nodded slowly.
“We're verifying whether the policy was ever issued, but the application includes what appears to be your signature.”
I examined it.
The handwriting looked almost perfect.
Except for one thing.
I never wrote the final letter of my surname with that particular flourish.
Daniel did.
He had forged my signature.
Again.
“How many times?” I whispered.
Olivia looked at me.
“We're still investigating.”
A knock sounded at the library door.
Mrs. Brooks entered.
“Mr. Whitmore, there's a woman at the front gate.”
My father looked up.
“Who?”
“She says her name is Patricia Lane.”
I stood so quickly that pain shot through my back.
Patricia.
The woman Reeves was trying to find.
Mrs. Brooks continued.
“She says she used to work for Mrs. Whitmore.”
My father was already reaching for his phone.
“Have security bring her inside.”
But Mrs. Brooks wasn't finished.
“The woman says she has something belonging to Catherine.”
I gripped the edge of the desk.
“What?”
Mrs. Brooks looked directly at me.
“A recording.”
May you like
Then she lowered her voice.
“And she says your mother made it the night before she died.”
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