We drove directly to Mr. Reyes's office.
Nobody spoke during the trip.
I kept staring at the unknown number.
The message remained on my screen.
You should have stayed away from your father's house.
I had already taken a screenshot.
Then another message appeared.
Delete what you found.
I showed Mr. Reyes.
“Don't respond.”
“I wasn't going to.”
“Good.”
At the office, he disconnected the building's internet connection and moved the evidence onto an isolated computer.
The estate accountant stayed with us.
Mother's attorney did too.
Neither man looked comfortable.
That was fine.
I didn't trust either of them.
Mr. Reyes opened the first document.
“We need to determine how they knew.”
The accountant shook his head.
“They couldn't have known about the house.”
“But someone did,” I said.
He looked at me.
“I didn't tell anyone.”
The attorney said nothing.
I looked at him.
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Did you tell Evelyn?”
“No.”
“Then who knew?”
He hesitated.
“Your father's old assistant.”
“What happened to her?”
“She left the company shortly before his death.”
“Why?”
“Evelyn fired her.”
I wrote down her name.
“Where is she now?”
The attorney gave me an address.
Mr. Reyes looked at him.
“You've known about her this whole time.”
“Yes.”
“And you never contacted her?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because Evelyn warned me not to.”
I stared at him.
That answer was becoming familiar.
Mother had spent years turning fear into silence.
I wasn't going to continue it.
We contacted the woman that evening.
Her name was Margaret Ellis.
She agreed to meet us the following morning.
Before leaving the office, Mr. Reyes asked me to check my bank account.
I logged in.
Everything appeared normal.
Then I noticed one login.
Three days earlier.
A device from another state.
I had never been there.
I showed him.
He immediately called the bank.
The account was frozen temporarily.
Then we checked my email.
There were login attempts from several locations.
Someone had tried to access my estate documents.
Someone had tried to reset my password.
Someone had searched for files with one particular phrase.
Second Trust.
I stared at the screen.
“They knew.”
Mr. Reyes nodded.
“They've been searching for it.”
“Why?”
“Because they don't know where it is.”
The thought gave me a strange sense of relief.
They were afraid too.
I went home to the small apartment I had rented after leaving Mother's house.
I checked the locks twice.
Then I sat on the floor beside my bed with my father's letter.
I read it again.
Trust your questions.
I wondered what he would think if he could see me now.
I wondered whether he had known how difficult it would be.
At midnight, I heard a noise outside.
I froze.
Footsteps in the hallway.
They stopped outside my door.
I reached for my phone.
The footsteps moved away.
I waited five minutes before checking.
Nobody was there.
But an envelope had been pushed beneath my door.
There was no name.
Inside was a photograph.
My mother.
Celeste.
And a man I didn't recognize.
They were standing outside a bank.
The date was printed on the back.
Six months before my father died.
I turned the photograph over.
There was a handwritten note.
Ask Celeste why she was there.
I didn't sleep.
The next morning, I showed it to Mr. Reyes.
He looked at it carefully.
“Do you recognize the man?”
“No.”
The accountant did.
His face went white.
“That is Victor Hale.”
“Who?”
“He worked in your father's company.”
“His position?”
“Internal auditor.”
I stared at the photograph.
The missing link.
Someone with access to the accounts.
Someone who could make transfers look legitimate.
Someone who could access records.
Someone who had disappeared from the company after my father's death.
“Where is he now?”
The accountant shook his head.
“I don't know.”
The attorney spoke quietly.
“I do.”
We turned toward him.
“Where?”
“He's in prison.”
“For what?”
“Fraud.”
I felt cold.
“Whose fraud?”
The attorney looked at me.
“Your father's.”
I stared at him.
“That isn't possible.”
“He was convicted of falsifying company records.”
“Did my father accuse him?”
“No.”
“Then who did?”
“Evelyn.”
My mother.
Again.
Every path seemed to lead back to her.
But something didn't fit.
If Victor had been convicted because of Mother, why had she met him before my father died?
And why was Celeste there?
I called my sister.
She answered after several rings.
“What?”
“Where were you six months before Dad died?”
Silence.
“Why?”
“I found a photograph.”
Her breathing changed.
“Where did you get it?”
“That's not important.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Were you with Mom and Victor Hale at the bank?”
She didn't answer.
“Celeste?”
“I was there.”
“Why?”
“I didn't know what was happening.”
“That's not an answer.”
She began crying.
I had expected anger.
Not tears.
“What did Mom ask you to do?”
“Nothing.”
“Celeste.”
“I signed something.”
My heart sank.
“What?”
“I don't know.”
“You signed a document without reading it?”
“I trusted Mom.”
“So did I.”
She cried harder.
Then she whispered something.
“Dad found out.”
“What?”
“He found out about the account.”
“What account?”
“The one Mom opened using your information.”
I stopped breathing.
“My information?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Before Dad died.”
“Why?”
“I don't know.”
“Celeste, tell me everything.”
“I can't.”
“You can.”
“She'll destroy me.”
“She already destroyed the laptop.”
Celeste went silent.
I continued.
“She can't control you if you tell the truth.”
For a long time, she said nothing.
Then she whispered.
“Come to the nursery.”
“What?”
“At Mom's house.”
“No.”
“There's something I need to show you.”
“Why can't you bring it to me?”
“Because I don't have it.”
“What do you have?”
“A key.”
My pulse quickened.
“What key?”
“The key Dad gave me.”
“Why?”
“I don't know.”
She hung up.
I looked at Mr. Reyes.
“I need to see her.”
He shook his head.
“Not alone.”
We drove to Mother's house.
Celeste opened the door.
She looked exhausted.
The baby was asleep upstairs.
She led us into the nursery.
From beneath the crib, she pulled out a small wooden box.
Inside was a brass key.
The same key as the one my father had left in the desk.
I stared at it.
“Why do you have this?”
“Dad gave it to me.”
“When?”
“The week before he died.”
“Why?”
“He told me to hide it from Mom.”
I looked at her.
“What did he say?”
She wiped her face.
“He said if anything happened to him, I should give it to you only when Mom could no longer stop you from asking questions.”
My throat tightened.
“You knew.”
“I knew something was wrong.”
“You helped her anyway.”
Celeste lowered her eyes.
“I was scared.”
“Of Mom?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
She looked toward the nursery door.
Then whispered,
“Because I saw what she did to Dad.”
The room went silent.
I stared at her.
“What did you see?”
Celeste shook her head.
“I can't tell you here.”
“Then where?”
She looked at the baby monitor.
“There's a recording.”
“What recording?”
“The night Dad collapsed.”
I felt the air leave my lungs.
“What does it show?”
Celeste looked directly at me.
“It shows Mom was lying about what happened that night.”
Click here to continue reading: PART 8: Celeste Finally Told Me What She Had Seen the Night Our Father Collapsed, and the Truth Made Every Lie Before It Look Different
The Moment My Mother Destroyed My Laptop, I Realized She Was Trying to Erase Far More Than My Work
Part 7 of 12
