Chapter 4 - THE MAN WHO WAS THERE WHEN DAD DIEDI had spent eighteen months believing Nathan found my father alone.
That was the story he'd told the paramedics.
The story he'd repeated at the funeral.
The story he'd described to me through tears when I asked whether Dad had suffered.
Now Gregory Vale was telling me another person had been present.
And I needed to know who.
"Who was there?" I demanded.
Gregory didn't answer immediately.
Instead, I heard faint music in the background.
A piano.
People talking.
The delicate clinking of glass.
He was at a party.
While I sat in my attorney's office, grieving my father all over again, Gregory was apparently drinking champagne.
"You're asking the wrong question," he said.
"Then tell me the right one."
"Ask yourself why Richard wanted to ruin Nathan."
I looked at Thomas.
He shook his head.
"Because Nathan stole from him," I said.
Gregory laughed.
"That's an interpretation."
"Fourteen million dollars moved into companies you controlled."
Silence.
Then his tone changed.
"Who told you that?"
"It doesn't matter."
"Was it Thomas?"
Thomas's expression hardened.
"Hello, Gregory."
Another pause.
Then Gregory said, "You should have stayed retired, old man."
I felt a surge of anger.
"Don't threaten him."
"I'm not threatening anybody. I'm trying to prevent a misunderstanding from turning into a disaster."
"Did you see my father die?"
Gregory exhaled.
"Richard was a difficult man."
It was such an obscene response that I nearly dropped the phone.
My father had given Gregory opportunities when no one else would.
He'd invested in his earliest ventures.
He'd welcomed him into our home.
And now Gregory was calling him difficult.
"Answer me."
"He was angry. That's all I'll say."
"Was Nathan there?"
"Ask your husband."
"And the third person?"
Gregory fell silent.
For one extraordinary moment, I thought he might finally confess something.
Instead, he said, "Get some sleep, Eleanor. Tomorrow will be worse."
The line went dead.
I stood motionless.
Margaret immediately saved the call information and began documenting everything Gregory had said.
Thomas looked exhausted.
"He's frightened," he murmured.
"So am I."
"No." Thomas shook his head. "Gregory isn't frightened of you. He's frightened of whatever Richard left behind."
I looked down at my father's letter.
The envelope was still sealed.
Margaret pushed it toward me.
"You should read this now."
My hands trembled as I carefully opened it.
Inside were three pages of cream-colored stationery.
The first began with two words.
My Ellie.
I covered my mouth.
I hadn't seen that nickname written in my father's handwriting since the Christmas card he'd given me before his death.
I began reading.
If you're holding this letter, someone has tried to separate you from the house your mother and I loved so much.
I hope I'm wrong about who that person is.
For your sake, I pray I'm wrong.
My vision blurred.
I forced myself to continue.
There are decisions I regret. I regret trusting charm over evidence. I regret believing that a man who speaks beautifully about loyalty necessarily understands it.
Most of all, I regret staying silent when I first began to suspect Nathan was using our family's assets without permission.
I wiped my cheeks.
Eleanor, I want you to understand something. You did not cause another person's dishonesty by loving him.
You were generous because that is who you are. He made his choices because that is who he became.
I pressed the letter against my chest.
Margaret quietly handed me a tissue.
Then I read the next paragraph.
I've prepared copies of my financial findings with Thomas Reed. I've also preserved a lawful record of a meeting that may become important if anyone disputes the truth.
If I am unavailable when the investigation begins, ask Margaret to contact Detective Rebecca Shaw.
I looked up.
"Who is Rebecca Shaw?"
Margaret nodded slowly.
"A financial crimes investigator. Your father consulted her informally before his death."
"He was planning to report Nathan?"
"Yes."
I returned to the letter.
Do not confront anyone alone. Do not let anger place you in danger. Use the law, the records, and the people who have earned your trust.
You may have to lose something you once believed you couldn't live without.
But you will never lose yourself unless you surrender that too.
Love, Dad.
For a long time, I simply sat there.
The office clock ticked.
Rain struck the windows.
Thomas quietly excused himself to get coffee.
I read the letter again.
And again.
Finally, I folded it and placed it inside my purse.
"I want to speak to Detective Shaw."
Margaret was already reaching for her phone.
By 2:15 A.M., we had arranged a meeting for the following morning.
Meanwhile, I received another message from Nathan.
I don't know what Gregory told you, but he's lying.
I stared at the screen.
Then another message arrived.
Please, Eleanor. I need to explain.
For twelve years, Nathan had barely explained why he came home late.
Now he suddenly had endless explanations.
I typed a response.
All further communication goes through my attorney.
Then I blocked his number.
At 3:04 A.M., I checked the estate cameras.
The police had departed after documenting the dispute.
Nathan had left in Gregory's black Mercedes.
Madison had driven away separately.
The mansion stood empty.
Dark.
Quiet.
My home.
I wanted to go there.
I wanted to walk into my father's study and feel his presence in the old leather chair.
But Margaret advised against returning before the security company completed a full inspection.
The police still needed statements, and the property was becoming central to a serious financial investigation.
So I agreed to stay in a nearby hotel.
At 7:30 A.M., I met Detective Rebecca Shaw at the county financial crimes office.
She was in her early forties, with short dark hair and an expression that suggested she had very little patience for wealthy men who believed rules were optional.
She shook my hand.
"Mrs. Whitmore. Your father spoke highly of you."
I froze.
"You knew him?"
"We met twice."
"He never told me."
"He wanted to protect you while we determined what, if anything, could be substantiated."
She led us into a conference room.
A technician was waiting beside a computer.
On the table sat the silver safe.
My father's safe.
The sight made my chest ache.
Detective Shaw explained that the safe had been recovered during the response to the disturbance and was being held pending confirmation of ownership and appropriate legal authorization to examine its contents.
Margaret supplied the trust documentation establishing the safe as an estate asset.
After the necessary arrangements were made, I was permitted to open it.
I knelt beside the table.
Turned the dial.
Sixteen.
Twenty-eight.
Forty-one.
The lock clicked.
Inside were several items.
A small velvet pouch.
A leather notebook.
A flash drive.
And a sealed envelope.
My name was written across the envelope.
But the thing that stopped me breathing was the photograph beneath it.
My father stood in his study.
Nathan was beside him.
Gregory stood near the fireplace.
And a fourth person was visible at the edge of the frame.
A woman.
Young.
Blonde.
I leaned closer.
My hands began trembling.
I knew her.
Not personally.
But I'd seen her photograph.
On Nathan's phone.
In an email he'd claimed was a business arrangement.
In the background of a vacation picture he'd accidentally sent me.
Madison Clarke.
My husband's twenty-four-year-old mistress.
She had been inside my father's study eighteen months before his death.
When she would have been only twenty-two.
I stared at the picture.
"Why was Madison there?"
Detective Shaw looked at the photograph.
"That's one of the things we're investigating."
My mind raced.
Nathan had told me he met Madison at a charity event six months ago.
He'd sworn she was a recent employee.
He'd claimed their relationship began only after our marriage had become unhappy.
But Madison had known my father.
She'd been inside our home.
She'd attended that meeting.
My stomach twisted.
"How long has my husband known her?"
The detective didn't answer.
Instead, she opened a case folder.
"Mrs. Whitmore, I need you to look at something."
She slid a photograph toward me.
It showed a hospital corridor.
A woman in pale blue medical scrubs stood beside a vending machine.
Same face.
Same blonde hair.
Same distinctive tattoo near her wrist.
Madison.
"That photograph was taken on the night your father died," Detective Shaw said.
I felt the room spin.
"Why was she at the hospital?"
"According to the old visitor log, she came with Mr. Whitmore."
My voice came out barely above a whisper.
"Nathan told me he went to the hospital alone."
"I know."
The detective watched me carefully.
"There's something else. At the time, Madison wasn't working for your husband."
"Then who was she?"
Detective Shaw opened another document.
"She was employed by the private medical service that provided your father with home health assessments."
My heart seemed to stop.
The woman Nathan had brought into my mansion on Halloween hadn't just stolen my husband.
She'd been part of my father's life before he died.
And suddenly, I understood why she'd been desperate to get into his safe.
May you like
She wasn't looking for jewelry.
She was looking for evidence.
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