I kept reading.
The files on the flash drive were organized into several folders, each containing different kinds of records.
Some were photographs of documents.
Others were spreadsheets showing transfers between companies.
There were signed agreements, account information, and copies of correspondence.
I recognized enough of the material to understand that whoever assembled it had spent considerable time collecting evidence.
I also recognized the names.
Derek's businesses appeared repeatedly.
So did the names of companies connected to several property transactions under review.
I had spent months examining records that raised questions about how certain assets had been transferred and financed.
Now some of those same transactions appeared in the files sitting on my kitchen table.
I was no longer looking at an ordinary collection of business documents.
I was looking at something that could affect my professional investigation and my family.
I opened another folder.
An insurance document appeared on the screen.
At first, I thought it had been included by mistake.
Then I saw my name.
Claire Mercer.
I moved closer to the computer.
The document identified me as the insured person under a policy valued at eight hundred thousand dollars.
The beneficiary was Mercer Holdings LLC.
My father managed that company.
I read the page again.
Then I checked the date.
The policy had apparently been established eleven months earlier.
I had no memory of applying for it.
I hadn't knowingly agreed to insure myself through a company managed by my father.
I searched the remaining files for related documents.
There were references to the policy, but nothing in the material immediately explained how it had been established or what authorization had been used.
I sat very still.
My accident had happened on an icy highway.
The initial report attributed it to dangerous road conditions.
I had no evidence that anyone had caused the collision deliberately.
I wasn't going to invent an explanation simply because I had discovered something frightening.
But the insurance document raised questions that I could not ignore.
Why had a policy involving me been created without my knowledge?
Why was a company managed by my father named as the beneficiary?
And why had the person who sent me these records chosen to include that document?
I picked up my phone.
My first instinct was to call my father.
I wanted him to explain what I was seeing.
I wanted him to tell me that there was a simple mistake and that I had misunderstood the paperwork.
But then I remembered the message he had sent Derek.
Keep Claire away from the property records.
I couldn't pretend that message didn't exist.
I decided to make copies of the files and keep the originals untouched.
I would need professional advice before doing anything else.
As I was preparing to save the documents, I heard someone knocking on my front door.
The sound was sharp and impatient.
I froze.
Another knock followed.
Then my mother's voice came from the hallway.
"Claire! Open the door!"
I looked at the computer.
The insurance document was still on the screen.
I hadn't told my parents I was home.
I hadn't told Vanessa, either.
Yet all three of them were outside my apartment.
I walked toward the door without opening it.
"Claire, we need to talk," my father called.
I stayed where I was.
"What do you want?"
There was a pause.
Then he spoke again.
"We know you've received something that belongs to us."
My heart began beating faster.
I looked back toward the kitchen.
The package was still open on the table.
The flash drive lay beside the brass key.
I hadn't imagined their reaction.
They knew about the package.
And they wanted it back.
I approached the door and looked through the peephole.
My mother stood closest to it.
Her expression was angry, not concerned.
My father was beside her, looking past the door as if he expected to see through it.
Vanessa stood a little farther back.
She kept glancing toward the end of the hallway.
I couldn't understand why she seemed so nervous.
I placed my hand on the lock but didn't turn it.
"What exactly do you think I have?"
My mother answered immediately.
"Don't play games with us."
I almost laughed.
It wasn't a happy sound.
Three days earlier, I had been lying in a hospital bed after an accident.
A nurse had called my parents and told them I needed urgent treatment.
They had chosen to remain at Thanksgiving dinner.
Now they were standing outside my apartment because they believed I possessed something valuable.
My father stepped closer.
"Claire, let us in."
"Why?"
"Because this concerns the family."
I looked down at the floor.
There it was again.
The family.
Whenever my parents wanted me to make a sacrifice, they reminded me that we were related.
Whenever I needed something from them, that relationship seemed to become less important.
I kept my voice steady.
"If this is about the package, you can explain what it contains."
My mother made an impatient sound.
"Stop making this difficult."
Vanessa finally spoke.
"Claire, just give us what you received."
I closed my eyes for a moment.
She didn't ask how I was feeling.
She didn't ask whether I was recovering.
She didn't even mention the accident.
She wanted the package.
I turned the lock and opened the door a few inches, leaving the security chain in place.
My mother immediately leaned forward.
"Where is it?"
"Where is what?"
"The material you were given."
I looked at my father.
He wasn't meeting my eyes.
Instead, he watched the narrow opening between the door and its frame.
I had seen him look that way before when he wanted a conversation to end without answering a question.
I had always let him.
Not this time.
I went back to the kitchen and returned with a copy of the insurance document.
I held it where they could see it.
"Before I give anyone anything, I want an explanation."
My father's expression changed as soon as he recognized the page.
For a moment, he looked genuinely shocked.
Then his face hardened.
"Where did you get that?"
"From the records someone sent me."
He moved closer to the door.
"Give us the package, Claire. You don't understand these documents."
"Then explain them."
My mother looked at the paper.
Her anger shifted into something I couldn't quite identify.
"Your father has handled complicated financial matters for years. You shouldn't jump to conclusions."
"I haven't jumped to anything."
I pointed to the name on the document.
"Why is there an insurance policy with me listed as the insured person and Mercer Holdings as the beneficiary?"
My father didn't answer.
Vanessa shifted her weight.
I looked at her.
"Did you know about this?"
She glanced at the paper, then toward the hallway.
"Derek said you wouldn't know what to do with those documents."
The words came out quickly.
Then she stopped.
Nobody moved.
I felt something cold settle inside me.
"So Derek knows about the package?"
Vanessa pressed her lips together.
My father closed his eyes.
My mother looked at her as if she had just said something she wasn't supposed to say.
I stepped away from the door.
There were too many questions, and I wasn't going to answer them while standing in my apartment hallway with my family demanding that I hand over evidence.
"I'm getting an attorney to review everything."
My father opened his eyes.
"Claire, don't do something you'll regret."
"I need an explanation, Dad. If everything is legitimate, an attorney can help establish that."
He said my name, but I didn't wait for him to finish.
I closed the door and turned the lock.
For several seconds, I stood with my back against it.
My hands were shaking.
I had spent years trying to avoid arguments with my family.
I had convinced myself that keeping the peace was a sign of maturity.
But there was a difference between keeping the peace and allowing other people to decide which questions I was permitted to ask.
I returned to the kitchen.
The flash drive was still beside the computer.
The brass key lay next to the note.
I put the insurance document into a folder and made a list of everything I needed to ask an attorney.
I would not confront my family again without professional guidance.
That decision frightened me.
It also felt like the first sensible decision I had made since the accident.
Source: kaylestore.net
Click here to continue reading: PART 4: The Brass Key Led Me to a Bank Box, Where an Unfamiliar Signature Revealed That the Person I Suspected Had Been Keeping Records
The Phone Call That Made Me Understand Where I Stood in My Family, Before I Even Knew What Had Happened to Me
Part 3 of 12
