Chapter 5 - THE TREASURE IN MY WORKSHOPI drove back to Hawthorne Ridge with the brass key in my jacket pocket and a dozen unanswered questions spinning through my head.
By the time I reached the property, rain had begun falling across the gravel driveway.
My workshop glowed warmly through its tall windows.
I parked beside the main building and sat for a moment, staring at the enormous timber structure.
I'd built it five years earlier after securing my first major commercial contract.
Inside were industrial woodworking machines, design stations, finishing rooms, and a small showroom where clients could examine custom pieces.
The entire building smelled like cedar and varnish.
It reminded me of Dad.
That was deliberate.
When I purchased my first proper tools, I bought several pieces from an estate equipment dealer in Salem.
Then, two years later, I purchased an old wooden tool cabinet at a regional antique auction.
I remembered the cabinet because it was unusual.
Tall and narrow, with twelve shallow drawers, brass handles, and an oak frame darkened by age.
The seller claimed it had come from a defunct cabinetmaking shop somewhere in Portland.
I paid $640 for it.
It now stood against the far wall of my private design office.
I hadn't thought about it in months.
But as I walked toward the workshop, a terrible possibility began forming.
I unlocked my office.
There it was.
The cabinet.
The same cabinet I'd used for storing sketches and specialized hand tools for years.
I approached slowly.
The brass handles were worn.
A small chip marked the lower left corner.
Dad had once dropped a steel clamp against his cabinet and cursed so loudly that Mallory came running from the house.
I remembered laughing.
I remembered helping him sand the damaged corner.
My chest tightened.
“Dad?”
The word escaped before I could stop it.
I knelt in front of the cabinet.
Under the lowest drawer was a narrow strip of oak.
I tugged it.
Nothing.
Then I remembered Sam mentioning a false bottom.
I removed the drawer completely.
Behind it was a small brass plate.
Stamped with the number 17.
My hand trembled as I took out the key.
It fit perfectly.
I turned it.
A quiet click sounded.
The wooden panel shifted outward.
Behind it sat a blue metal box.
I stared.
Twelve years.
Twelve years of wondering whether my father had forgotten me.
Twelve years of surviving without knowing he had tried to provide for me.
And all that time, part of his final message had been sitting inside my own workshop.
I lifted the box carefully.
Its hinges creaked when I opened it.
Inside were documents, photographs, a small flash drive, and a sealed envelope addressed to me.
I called Evelyn immediately.
“I found the box.”
She was silent.
“Paige, where?”
“In my workshop.”
“Don't move or alter anything more than necessary. Photograph everything as you found it.”
“I already opened it.”
“That's all right. Take pictures now. Preserve the contents carefully. I'm coming over.”
While I waited, I sat beside the cabinet and studied the envelope.
I wanted desperately to open it.
Instead, I placed it back in the box.
Evelyn arrived forty minutes later.
With her was a digital forensic specialist named Marcus Hale.
Marcus wore glasses, carried two hard cases, and spoke with the deliberate precision of someone who trusted machines more than people.
He photographed the cabinet, examined the lock, and carefully documented the contents.
The flash drive was placed into evidence packaging for forensic imaging.
Then Evelyn allowed me to open the letter.
I unfolded it.
Paige,
I hope you never need the papers in this box.
But if you do, I want you to know I tried to make things right.
Your mother has been transferring money from the company without my authorization. At first, she claimed it was temporary. Then I discovered signatures that weren't mine.
I also learned she had arranged a loan using the workshop property as security without telling me the full terms.
When I confronted her, she accused me of loving my business more than my family.
I told her the business was part of our family's future. She said Mallory needed that future more than you did.
I don't know how to make her understand that one daughter cannot be protected by taking everything from the other.
I lowered the page.
My hands were shaking.
Evelyn waited.
I continued.
The original trust documents and accounting records are enclosed. I have also included copies of correspondence with my attorney.
Sam knows some of this, but not all.
I am meeting with Diane tomorrow to tell her that I will no longer permit unauthorized transfers.
If we cannot resolve this, I will separate our finances.
Whatever happens, please believe that none of this is your responsibility.
You are my daughter, Paige. Not a backup plan for your sister.
Love, Dad.
I began crying.
Not quietly.
Not gracefully.
Twelve years of grief and rejection collapsed all at once.
Evelyn moved beside me and put a hand on my shoulder.
For several minutes, I couldn't speak.
Then I whispered, “He knew.”
“Knew what?”
“That Mom was taking things from me.”
Evelyn nodded gently.
“Yes.”
“He tried to stop it.”
“Yes.”
I looked toward the cabinet.
“And she did it anyway.”
Marcus called us over an hour later.
He had completed a preliminary review of the photographed records and created a forensic copy of the drive.
“There's a lot here,” he said.
“What kind of files?” Evelyn asked.
“Financial spreadsheets. Scanned documents. Email archives. Several recorded conversations.”
My heart pounded.
“Recorded conversations?”
Marcus nodded.
“Some appear to be between Thomas Whitaker and Diane Whitaker.”
He played a short section.
My father's voice filled the office.
I hadn't heard it in thirteen years.
It nearly broke me.
“Diane, this isn't about punishing Mallory,” he said in the recording. “It's about protecting the business.”
My mother's voice answered.
“You're giving everything to Paige.”
“I'm giving Paige the company because she understands it. Mallory has a separate inheritance.”
“It's not enough.”
“Nothing is ever enough when it comes to Mallory.”
A chair scraped.
Mom spoke again.
“Don't expect me to sit quietly while you make one daughter rich and leave the other behind.”
Dad sounded exhausted.
“Diane, you have already taken nearly two hundred thousand dollars without authorization.”
“That's family money.”
“It's company money.”
“Our family needs it.”
“Then we need to discuss how to repay it.”
Mom laughed bitterly.
“Good luck making me.”
The recording ended.
I sat motionless.
Evelyn's expression was grave.
“We need to verify the context and legality of these recordings before relying on them. But the documents may be extremely significant.”
I looked at Marcus.
“Is there more?”
“Yes.”
He opened another folder.
A spreadsheet showed transfers from Whitaker Woodworks to several accounts.
One belonged to a company called Bennett Development Group.
Another belonged to an account under Mallory's name.
But the most recent entries were what caught Evelyn's attention.
They dated from three years after Dad's death.
And they involved a real estate holding company connected to the industrial parcel my father had purchased.
“Wait,” I said. “My father died thirteen years ago. How could there be transfers three years afterward?”
Evelyn studied the screen.
“Because someone appears to have continued using his business interests after he died.”
Marcus enlarged a document.
There was my father's signature.
Dated three years after his funeral.
I stared in disbelief.
“That isn't possible.”
“No,” Evelyn said softly. “It isn't.”
Then Marcus clicked another file.
A business letter appeared.
At the bottom was a familiar name.
Brooke Ellis.
My former assistant.
She had worked for me only two years.
But somehow, her name appeared in correspondence relating to a company involved in my father's missing assets.
I turned toward Evelyn.
“Brooke wasn't working for me when Dad died.”
“I know.”
“Then why is she involved?”
Evelyn's phone rang before she could answer.
She checked the screen.
Her expression changed.
“It's the investigator.”
She stepped aside to take the call.
I watched her face grow increasingly serious.
When she returned, she looked directly at me.
“Paige, we found out why your sister's house was sold.”
I swallowed.
“Why?”
“Grant is under investigation by several creditors. Their financial position is much worse than they admitted.”
“Are they bankrupt?”
“Possibly headed that direction.”
She paused.
“And there's something else.”
“What?”
“Your former assistant Brooke Ellis isn't just connected to Grant's business.”
Evelyn placed a photograph on the desk.
It showed Brooke and Grant leaving a restaurant together.
Holding hands.
The photograph was dated eight months earlier.
I stared at it.
Then I looked at the second photograph.
Brooke was kissing Grant in a parking garage.
Evelyn's voice was quiet.
“Your sister's husband has been having an affair with your former employee.”
I felt the room tilt.
But the real shock came when Evelyn showed me the third photograph.
Brooke stood beside my mother outside a bank.
They were exchanging a thick envelope.
Dated three days before the moving truck arrived.
My mother hadn't simply supported Grant's plan.
May you like
She had been participating in it.
And I was beginning to suspect that Mallory was the only adult standing outside my gate who didn't know the whole truth.
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