I stared at the date until the numbers blurred.
There are moments when the mind refuses to connect two facts because connecting them would create a third fact too frightening to accept.
My father's accident had happened six months earlier.
A rainy Thursday morning.
A delivery truck.
A wet intersection.
A phone call from an unknown number.
I had spent the first hour believing someone had made a mistake.
Then I had arrived at the hospital.
Everything after that had divided my life into before and after.
I turned Viktor's card over again.
The handwriting was unmistakable.
The date was exact.
I slipped the card into my pocket.
I didn't tell Maya.
I didn't tell the manager.
I didn't tell anyone.
Instead, I went home, changed clothes, and drove to the rehabilitation center.
My father was awake when I arrived.
He looked smaller than he had before the accident.
Not physically, exactly.
Something about the way he occupied the bed had changed.
He had always been the sort of man who filled a room without trying. Even when sitting quietly, he seemed present.
Now his attention drifted in and out.
“You're late,” he said.
“I had a difficult table.”
He smiled.
“Rich customer?”
“Very.”
“Did he tip?”
I hesitated.
“Not really.”
He laughed softly.
“That means he was definitely rich.”
I sat beside him.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
Then I asked, “Dad, do you remember the accident?”
His smile disappeared.
“Some of it.”
“Do you remember the company whose truck hit you?”
He looked at me.
“Why?”
“I was just wondering.”
He didn't answer.
That was answer enough.
“Dad?”
He turned his head toward the window.
“Don't ask me about that.”
My heartbeat quickened.
“Why?”
“Because you don't need to know.”
“You always told me that secrets make things worse.”
“I was wrong.”
His voice was quiet.
I reached for his hand.
He squeezed mine.
“Promise me something.”
“What?”
“If anyone asks about the accident, you tell them you don't know anything.”
“Who would ask?”
He looked at me.
“Anna.”
“Dad.”
“Promise.”
I wanted to argue.
Instead, I nodded.
“I promise.”
But I knew immediately that I had lied.
The next morning, I went to Viktor's office.
Not because I trusted him.
Because I needed answers.
His building occupied an entire corner of a financial district filled with glass towers and private security.
A receptionist checked my identification before calling upstairs.
Then she gave me a visitor badge.
The elevator opened directly into a private reception area.
Viktor was waiting.
He wore no jacket.
His sleeves were rolled to his forearms.
There was a folder on the table between us.
“You came.”
“You expected me to.”
“Yes.”
“That's not the same thing.”
He almost smiled.
“Sit.”
I remained standing.
He opened the folder.
Inside were photographs.
My father.
The truck.
The intersection.
The hospital entrance.
My hands became cold.
“Where did you get these?”
“I had them before I knew who you were.”
“Why?”
“Because your father's accident was investigated as a business-related incident.”
“By whom?”
“My company.”
“That makes no sense.”
“It will.”
He removed another photograph.
This one showed my father speaking to a man outside a warehouse.
I recognized the location.
My father had never told me about it.
“What is that?”
“A warehouse owned by one of our subsidiaries.”
“Why was my father there?”
“That is the question.”
I looked at Viktor.
“You expect me to believe you don't know?”
“I know part of the answer.”
“And the rest?”
“That's why I needed you.”
I laughed once.
It came out sharper than I intended.
“You don't need a waitress.”
“I don't need a waitress.”
His gaze remained fixed on mine.
“I need an interpreter who understands German, Arabic, French, Russian, Spanish, and several other languages. I need someone who can recognize altered documents and remembers technical terminology. More importantly, I need someone who was never supposed to be connected to my company.”
I looked back at the photographs.
“You think my father was connected.”
“I know he was.”
“What did he do?”
Viktor didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he pushed a document toward me.
It was an internal company report.
My father's name appeared on page three.
Beside it was a designation.
CONFIDENTIAL CONSULTANT.
I read the line twice.
“My father wasn't a consultant.”
“He was.”
“He repaired hospital equipment.”
“Officially.”
I looked up.
Viktor leaned against the desk.
“Unofficially, he translated technical manuals and inspected equipment purchased from European manufacturers.”
“That still doesn't explain the accident.”
“No.”
“What does?”
He opened another file.
This one contained invoices.
Payments.
Transfer records.
Several company names.
One of them appeared repeatedly.
A subsidiary I had never heard of.
Then I saw something that made my breath stop.
The final page contained a list of names.
My father's name was there.
So was mine.
Not as an employee.
As a dependent.
My blood went cold.
“Why is my name here?”
Viktor's voice dropped.
“That is what I have been trying to determine.”
I looked at him.
“You're investigating me.”
“I was investigating the network around your father.”
“And I became part of it.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He didn't answer.
Instead, he pulled out his phone.
“I want to show you something.”
He opened a photograph.
It showed a conference room.
A group of men sat around a table.
At the far end was Viktor.
Beside him stood another man.
I recognized him.
He had visited my father in the rehabilitation center two weeks earlier.
I had assumed he was a doctor.
“He told the receptionist he was from an insurance company,” I whispered.
Viktor nodded.
“He wasn't.”
“Who is he?”
“Someone who should not know where your father is.”
The room seemed to tilt.
I gripped the edge of the desk.
“What does he want?”
Viktor's answer was immediate.
“Whatever your father took.”
I stared at him.
“My father didn't steal anything.”
“I didn't say he did.”
“Then what did he take?”
Viktor reached into the folder and removed a small photograph.
It showed my father at a desk.
In front of him was a black case.
The same kind I had seen once in my father's study.
A case I had been told contained old medical documents.
Viktor pointed at it.
“That case disappeared the night before the accident.”
I swallowed.
“You think I have it?”
“No.”
“Then why am I here?”
His expression hardened.
“Because someone else thinks you do.”
My phone vibrated.
I looked at the screen.
Unknown number.
One message.
DO NOT TRUST REINHARDT.
A second message arrived before I could breathe.
WE KNOW WHERE YOUR FATHER IS.
Click here to continue reading: PART 4: The Warning on My Phone Was Followed by a Missing File, and I Finally Realized Someone Had Planned for Me to Find It
The Hundred-Dollar Bill That Was Meant to Humiliate Me Revealed Something Far More Dangerous Than Arrogance
Part 3 of 12
