Chapter 3 - THE NIGHT THOMAS WHITMORE DIED
My father did not speak for nearly a minute.
That silence told me more than any confession could have.
I stood across from him in the kitchen, waiting.
Peter quietly gathered the documents.
Then he looked at Dad.
"Should I leave?"
Dad nodded.
Peter walked toward the door.
Before leaving, he looked at me.
"Whatever your father tells you, remember one thing."
"What?"
"Daniel's version may not be the truth."
Then he left.
I turned toward Dad.
"Start talking."
He sat down.
I remained standing.
"Twenty years ago," he began, "Thomas Whitmore was under investigation."
"For fraud?"
"Money laundering."
My heart sank.
"How much?"
"At least sixty million."
I stared.
"Sixty?"
"We suspected more."
"What happened?"
"Thomas was going to cooperate."
I frowned.
"Why?"
"Because someone inside his organization was threatening him."
"Who?"
"We didn't know."
"Then what happened?"
Dad looked down at his hands.
"Thomas disappeared."
"Disappeared?"
"For eleven days."
"And then?"
"He turned up dead."
I swallowed.
"How?"
"Car accident."
I stared.
"Accident?"
"That's what the official report said."
"But you don't believe it."
"No."
"Why?"
Dad looked at me.
"Because his car was found on a private road twenty miles from where he was supposed to be."
"What does that prove?"
"The brakes had been tampered with."
My stomach tightened.
"Did you investigate?"
"Of course."
"Then why wasn't anyone arrested?"
"Because every witness disappeared."
"What?"
"One moved overseas."
"Another refused to speak."
"The third was found dead six months later."
I felt cold.
"Who were they?"
Dad hesitated.
"Thomas Whitmore's business partners."
I sat down.
"Was Daniel involved?"
"He was twenty-nine."
"That's not an answer."
"No."
Dad rubbed his face.
"I never found proof."
"But you suspected him."
"Yes."
"Then why did you let me marry him?"
Dad's expression broke.
"Because I didn't know he was involved with you."
I laughed bitterly.
"That's not better."
"I know."
He looked at me.
"I warned you about him."
"You said you didn't trust him."
"I told you he had secrets."
"You never told me why."
"Because I was investigating."
"Then why didn't you stop me?"
"Because you were an adult."
I looked away.
"That answer feels very convenient."
"It wasn't."
Dad's voice became quieter.
"I thought if I pushed too hard, you'd choose him."
I looked back.
He was crying.
My father almost never cried.
"I couldn't lose you."
The anger in me softened.
Not disappeared.
But softened.
"I wish you had told me."
"I know."
We sat in silence.
Then I remembered Daniel's words.
"He said you know what happened to Thomas."
Dad nodded.
"I know what I believe happened."
"What?"
"Thomas discovered the financial network."
"The same one Daniel used?"
"Yes."
"And then?"
"He was killed."
"By whom?"
"We never proved it."
I looked at the documents.
"Could Daniel have inherited it?"
"Not directly."
"Then how?"
"Thomas had a private trust."
My heart stopped.
"The Hayes Family Trust?"
Dad shook his head.
"No."
"Then what?"
"The Whitmore Legacy Trust."
I stared.
"Why was my name on a trust connected to them?"
Dad looked at me.
"That's what we need to find out."
At that moment, Peter returned.
His face was pale.
"We have a problem."
Dad stood.
"What?"
"Someone accessed the server."
"What server?"
"The forensic archive."
My stomach tightened.
"Can they delete anything?"
Peter shook his head.
"Not the original evidence."
"Then what's the problem?"
Peter looked at me.
"Someone downloaded the files."
"When?"
"Six minutes ago."
Dad grabbed his phone.
"Who?"
"We're tracing the login."
Peter turned the laptop.
A username appeared.
My name.
Emily Hayes.
I stared.
"I didn't do that."
"I know."
"Then who did?"
Peter looked at the access log.
"Someone used your old credentials."
"Those were disabled."
"Apparently not completely."
Dad swore under his breath.
"Where?"
Peter pointed.
"The login originated from your old office."
I froze.
My old office.
The one I had left two years earlier.
The one Daniel had insisted I close after he convinced me to work remotely.
"Who has access?"
"Three people."
"Names?"
Peter listed them.
One was a former IT contractor.
One was a current employee.
The third was—
I stopped him.
"Say it again."
He repeated the name.
"Caroline Price."
I looked at Dad.
"Daniel's former assistant."
The same woman who supposedly owned Northstar Advisory.
Dad grabbed his coat.
"We're going."
I followed.
Twenty-five minutes later, we were outside my old office building.
The security guard recognized me.
"Ms. Hayes?"
"Who entered my old office today?"
He checked the log.
"Caroline Price."
"What time?"
"About twenty minutes ago."
Dad looked at me.
"She knew we were coming."
We took the elevator.
The hallway was dark.
My old office door stood open.
Inside, drawers had been emptied.
Files scattered.
The server cabinet was open.
And on my desk sat a single envelope.
My name was written across it.
I opened it.
Inside was one photograph.
Daniel and me.
Our wedding day.
I was smiling.
He was looking at me.
On the back, someone had written:
YOU WERE NEVER THE TARGET.
I turned the photograph over again.
Another line was written underneath.
YOUR FATHER WAS.
My blood froze.
Dad took the photograph.
He stared at it.
"Emily."
"What?"
"We need to leave."
"Why?"
He looked toward the door.
"Because whoever did this wants us to know they're watching."
The lights suddenly went out.
I heard footsteps in the hallway.
Dad grabbed my arm.
"Stay behind me."
A door slammed somewhere nearby.
Then another.
We heard someone running down the stairs.
Dad moved toward the hallway.
I followed.
We reached the stairwell.
A figure disappeared through the emergency exit.
Dad ran after him.
I stopped.
Something was lying on the floor.
A phone.
I picked it up.
The screen was unlocked.
There was one open message.
FROM DANIEL:
SHE KNOWS ABOUT THOMAS.
I stared.
Another message appeared.
FROM AN UNKNOWN NUMBER:
THEN MOVE TO PHASE TWO.
My blood ran cold.
I showed Dad.
He looked at me.
"What is Phase Two?"
Before he could answer, the phone rang.
I answered.
No one spoke.
Then a man's voice whispered,
"Ask your father what happened on November 14."
The call ended.
I looked at Dad.
"November 14?"
May you like
His face drained of color.
"That was the night Thomas died."
