Chapter 4 - THE MONEY UNDER THE FLOORBOARDS
I left the hospital two days later.
My father took me to his house.
It was an old brick home outside the city.
No cameras.
No staff.
No security guards.
Just my father, his dog, and a lifetime of police instincts.
The first thing he did was change the locks.
The second thing he did was unplug every smart device in the house.
The third thing he did was ask me one question.
“Do you trust Claire?”
I looked at him.
“No.”
“Good.”
“But I believe her.”
He stared at me.
“Those are not the same thing.”
“I know.”
Rebecca arrived that evening.
She brought boxes.
Financial statements.
Contracts.
Old foundation records.
And one disturbing piece of information.
“Your mother created a trust before she died.”
I frowned.
“What kind of trust?”
“A controlling trust.”
Rebecca placed the documents on the table.
“The foundation's majority voting power belongs to you.”
I stared at the papers.
“I knew she left me money.”
“She left you control.”
My father leaned forward.
“What does Ethan have?”
“Nothing.”
Rebecca looked at me.
“Legally, nothing.”
“Then why would he steal from the foundation?”
“Because he has been trying to create leverage.”
She opened another folder.
Inside were copies of payments.
“Money was transferred to Whitmore Strategic Holdings.”
“Why?”
“We don't know.”
My father studied the documents.
“Could be laundering.”
Rebecca nodded.
“Could be bribery.”
I looked at her.
“Bribery for what?”
She turned another page.
A list of names.
Government officials.
Construction companies.
Medical suppliers.
Charity board members.
My stomach tightened.
“What's this?”
“People who received payments.”
I stared at the list.
Then I saw a name.
MARTIN CARTER.
Ethan's older brother.
My father looked at me.
“Who is he?”
“Ethan's brother.”
“Where is he?”
“Dead.”
The room went quiet.
Martin had died in a boating accident five years earlier.
At least, that was what I had been told.
Rebecca tapped the page.
“Why was money being paid to a dead man?”
I had no answer.
Then my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
“Hello?”
A man's voice spoke.
“You should stop looking.”
I froze.
“Who is this?”
“You have a child.”
My blood turned cold.
My father stood.
The voice continued.
“Don't make the mistake of believing your husband is the worst man in your life.”
The call ended.
I stared at the phone.
My father took it from my hand.
“Did he threaten you?”
“He mentioned the baby.”
My father became very still.
Then he walked to the gun safe.
I watched him.
“Dad?”
He didn't answer.
That night, I couldn't sleep.
At 2:13 a.m., I heard something outside.
A car door.
I sat up.
My father was already awake.
He moved through the hallway silently.
Then the security alarm screamed.
Someone had tried to open the back door.
My father grabbed his flashlight.
I heard him shout.
The door burst open.
A man ran across the yard.
My father chased him.
I stood frozen in the hallway.
Then I saw something on the floor.
A small black flash drive.
I picked it up.
The next morning, Rebecca opened it.
There were photographs.
Hundreds of them.
Ethan meeting Claire.
Ethan meeting Claire's father.
Ethan meeting government officials.
Ethan entering an abandoned warehouse.
And then…
A photograph of my mother.
Taken three weeks before she died.
She was standing outside a hospital.
Beside her was Martin Carter.
Ethan's dead brother.
I stared at the image.
“Martin was alive?”
Rebecca shook her head.
“No.”
“Then who took this?”
She zoomed in.
The photograph had a date.
Three weeks before Martin's supposed death.
My mother had been meeting him.
Why?
I turned the next photograph.
My blood froze.
It showed my mother handing Martin a folder.
On the folder was a logo.
The logo of the Carter-Wells Foundation.
I whispered:
“My mother knew.”
Rebecca looked at me.
“Knew what?”
May you like
I stared at the photograph.
“That Ethan was lying.”
