Chapter 4 - TWELVE MINUTES TOO LATE
Thomas Vale had once been Halston Development’s internal auditor.
I remembered the name only vaguely.
He had attended two Christmas parties when I was in college.
Then one year, he vanished from company records.
Edwin once told me Thomas had been dismissed for theft.
Richard said that was a lie.
We stood in my father’s library at nearly midnight, surrounded by grief, rain, and secrets.
“Where is he?” I asked.
Richard rubbed both hands over his face.
“I don’t know.”
Beverly laughed without humor.
“How convenient.”
Richard looked at her.
“I spent fourteen years pretending I didn’t know what you did.”
“Be very careful.”
“No.”
He turned to me.
“I’m tired.”
Beverly’s expression hardened.
Richard continued.
“Thomas found payments routed through consulting companies. Eight million at first. Then more.”
“Payments to whom?”
“He never proved it.”
Beverly interrupted.
“Because there was nothing to prove.”
Richard glanced at Samuel.
“If I cooperate, can you protect me?”
Samuel answered carefully.
“I am not your attorney.”
“Can you introduce me to one?”
“Yes.”
Richard nodded.
Then he told us the rest.
The money had moved through shell companies.
Some payments financed Halston projects.
Some disappeared.
Thomas believed Beverly had created an off-book reserve.
A private fortune.
When he confronted Edwin’s father, the investigation stopped.
Three weeks later, Thomas resigned.
Publicly.
Privately, Richard said, Thomas had been threatened.
“Who threatened him?”
Richard looked at Beverly.
She remained silent.
“That’s enough,” she said.
Samuel stepped toward her.
“You should leave.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“This property belongs to the Bennett estate.”
She smiled coldly.
“And soon it will be contested.”
There it was.
The next attack.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
Beverly looked almost pleased to tell me.
“Your father changed his will six months ago.”
Samuel frowned.
“No, he didn’t.”
“Yes.”
“You couldn’t possibly know—”
“I know because I have a copy.”
She reached into her purse.
Samuel stiffened.
Beverly produced a folded document.
“Michael transferred a substantial portion of his business interests to a charitable foundation.”
I looked at Samuel.
“Is that true?”
“Not through our office.”
Beverly handed him the paper.
He read.
His expression changed.
“Forgery?” I asked.
“Maybe.”
Beverly smiled.
“It’s notarized.”
Samuel inspected the signature.
Then looked up.
“Who is Leonard Crane?”
“My attorney.”
I knew the name.
Crane represented Edwin in several real-estate disputes.
Samuel’s face darkened.
“This document assigns Bennett voting interests to an entity controlled by Halston Foundation.”
Beverly said, “Exactly.”
I laughed.
I could not help it.
“You’re claiming my father secretly gave your family control?”
“He wanted stability.”
“My father hated you.”
Richard coughed to hide a laugh.
Beverly turned on him.
“You think this is funny?”
“No.”
But it was.
Because the story was ridiculous.
Samuel folded the document.
“I’ll have this examined.”
“You’ll find it valid.”
I looked at the signature again.
Something bothered me.
My father’s signature curved left at the end.
This one curved right.
A tiny difference.
But I had seen him sign birthday cards, tuition checks, letters, contracts.
“That’s not his signature.”
Beverly’s face remained steady.
“You’re grieving.”
I took a picture.
“So we’ll find out.”
She left shortly afterward.
Richard left with Samuel’s associate.
I stayed.
For the first time in my life, my father’s house felt empty.
I walked upstairs.
His bedroom door was open.
His reading glasses lay beside the bed.
A book was face-down on the nightstand.
I sat on the edge of the mattress.
And finally, I cried.
Not politely.
Not quietly.
I cried like a daughter who had spent the last four years protecting a marriage while time with her father disappeared.
At 1:14 a.m., my phone rang.
St. Jude’s.
I answered.
“Mrs. Halston?”
“Yes?”
“This is Nurse Matthews. I’m sorry to contact you so late. We found something among your father’s belongings.”
My heart tightened.
“What?”
“A second phone.”
I went back to the hospital.
The device was old.
A cheap prepaid phone.
There was only one saved contact.
THOMAS.
And one unsent draft message.
IF LAURA CALLS, TELL HER ABOUT THE TWELVE MINUTES.
I showed Samuel.
He stared at the words.
“What twelve minutes?”
We called Thomas.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
Then a text arrived.
I’VE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS CALL FOR FOURTEEN YEARS.
I typed:
WHERE ARE YOU?
His reply came immediately.
NOT SAFE TO SAY.
Then:
ASK WAYNE WHAT HAPPENED AT 2:12 P.M. ON JUNE 8, FOUR YEARS AGO.
I looked at Samuel.
His face lost color.
“What happened?”
He did not answer.
“Samuel.”
He sat down slowly.
“June eighth was your wedding day.”
“I know.”
“At 2:00 p.m., your father almost stopped the wedding.”
My heartbeat quickened.
“What?”
“He received a report.”
“About Edwin?”
“Yes.”
“What was in it?”
Samuel looked sick.
“He wanted to show you.”
“But he didn’t.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because at 2:12 p.m., your mother’s sister collapsed at the venue.”
I remembered.
Aunt Catherine had fainted.
Paramedics arrived.
The ceremony was delayed.
Everyone panicked.
Samuel continued.
“By the time your father returned to the private room, the report was gone.”
“Twelve minutes.”
“Yes.”
Someone had created a distraction.
Someone had taken the report.
And my father had let me walk down the aisle without it.
My phone buzzed.
Thomas again.
BEVERLY STOLE THE REPORT.
I froze.
Then another message.
BUT THAT WASN’T THE WORST PART.
May you like
THE REPORT PROVED EDWIN HAD BEEN PAID TO MARRY YOU.
And suddenly my wedding day became a crime scene in my memory.
