Chapter 5 - My Father’s Last Night
My father died when I was seventeen.
At least, that was what I had always believed.
He collapsed in his office after dinner.
Mom found him beside his desk.
The medical examiner ruled the death cardiac arrest.
Dad had a history of high blood pressure.
Nobody questioned it.
Nobody except, apparently, Mom.
Ethan obtained archived records.
Dad’s toxicology report contained something strange.
A sedative.
Small amount.
Not fatal.
But enough to raise questions.
“Why wasn’t this investigated?” I asked.
“Prescription medication was found in the house.”
“It wasn’t Dad’s.”
“We know that now.”
“Whose?”
Ethan looked at me.
“Vivian had the same prescription.”
My hands went cold.
I remembered the funeral.
Vivian had held Mom while she cried.
She had moved into our guest room for two weeks.
She had called herself our protector.
“What did Caleb mean by attempted murder?”
“He claims Richard once told him your father’s death was supposed to look natural.”
“Richard knew?”
“That’s Caleb’s claim.”
I wanted Richard arrested immediately.
Evidence didn’t work that way.
Neither did justice.
Justice was slow.
Grief was not.
That afternoon, I began physical therapy.
My therapist, Maya, locked the wheelchair and helped me stand between parallel bars.
Pain ripped through my legs.
“Five seconds,” she said.
“I can’t.”
“You already are.”
I looked down.
My knees shook.
Three seconds.
Four.
Five.
I collapsed back into the chair.
And laughed.
It was the first time I had laughed since Mom died.
Maya smiled.
“Tomorrow we try six.”
Six seconds.
That became my world.
Not murder.
Not Vivian.
Not Richard.
Six seconds on my own feet.
That night, Ethan called.
“We found Martin Keene.”
Mom’s missing accountant.
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
Martin had disappeared voluntarily after someone broke into his office.
He had been hiding with his brother in Vermont.
When Ethan told him Mom was dead, Martin agreed to return.
I met him the next afternoon.
He looked exhausted.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“For what?”
“For leaving.”
“Why did you?”
“Your mother told me to.”
He handed me an envelope.
“She said if anything happened, I should give this directly to you.”
Inside was a ledger.
Handwritten.
Mom’s writing.
Page after page documented transactions between Richard, Vivian, Blackthorn Holdings, and several shell companies.
Then I reached the final page.
At the bottom, Mom had written:
Richard knows Vivian took the money.
Vivian knows Richard forged the documents.
They are protecting each other.
I looked at Martin.
“Why didn’t she go to police?”
“She planned to.”
“When?”
“The morning after your birthday.”
My chest tightened.
She died the night before.
Martin continued.
“Your mother discovered something bigger.”
“What?”
“Your father’s will.”
“What about it?”
“It was altered after his death.”
I stared.
“That’s impossible.”
“Legally, yes.”
“Who altered it?”
“Richard.”
According to the original will, Dad’s company shares went entirely to Mom.
The version submitted to probate diverted nearly thirty percent into a trust controlled by Richard.
Money from that trust later flowed into Blackthorn Holdings.
Vivian received payments.
Millions stolen over nine years.
Mom discovered it while refinancing a commercial property.
“She confronted Vivian,” Martin said.
“When?”
“Two weeks before the crash.”
“What happened?”
“Vivian denied everything.”
“Did Mom confront Richard?”
Martin shook his head.
“She wanted proof first.”
I looked down at the ledger.
Mom had been building a case.
She had known enough to be frightened.
Yet she still took me to dinner.
Still laughed about tiramisu.
Still tried to give me one normal birthday.
My throat tightened.
Martin reached across the table.
“Your mother loved you more than anything.”
“I know.”
“She told me something.”
“What?”
“If they came after her, she thought you would finish what she started.”
I looked at him.
“She said that?”
He nodded.
“She said, ‘Claire notices what everyone else misses.’”
I cried then.
Not dramatically.
No screaming.
Just quiet tears falling onto Mom’s handwriting.
Later, Ethan drove me home.
Police had obtained a warrant for Richard’s office.
Computers were seized.
Financial records.
Phones.
But Richard was gone.
His car was discovered at the airport.
No record showed him boarding a flight.
Vivian was also missing.
Two people connected to my mother’s death had disappeared within hours of each other.
At 11:43 that night, my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
Vivian.
“Claire.”
Her voice shook.
“Where are you?”
“You need to listen.”
“Where are you?”
“Richard is going to kill me.”
I froze.
“What?”
“I didn’t know he would kill Eleanor.”
“Stop lying.”
“I knew about the money.”
“You knew about Caleb.”
“I knew Richard wanted to scare her.”
“He cut her brakes.”
“I didn’t know!”
“Caleb says you did.”
“He’s protecting Richard.”
“Why should I believe you?”
Vivian began crying.
For once, it didn’t sound theatrical.
“Because Richard killed your father.”
Silence.
“And I can prove it.”
Before I could answer, I heard a sound on her end.
A door opening.
Vivian gasped.
Then whispered:
“He found me.”
May you like
The call went dead.
---
