Chapter 5 - My Father’s SignatureBy noon, I had enough circumstantial evidence to terrify any competent attorney and not quite enough to guarantee an arrest.
That was the disturbing thing about beautiful homes.
They could hide ugliness better than anywhere else.
I had spent the final hours before morning in my rental car at a twenty-four-hour diner three miles away, copying every file from Dad’s hidden phone.
At 6:40 a.m., Nathan arrived from Houston with two members of our investigative team.
He took one look at me and said, “You look terrible.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re bleeding.”
I touched my cheek.
A scratch from the tunnel.
“Marcus tried to hit me with a fireplace poker.”
Nathan stopped joking.
“Police.”
“Not yet.”
“Emily.”
“My father believes Marcus has someone feeding him information inside the department.”
Nathan studied me.
“That could be paranoia caused by medication.”
“It could.”
“But you don’t think it is.”
“No.”
He sat across from me in the diner booth.
Nathan Cole had been an FBI forensic accountant before leaving government work. He was calm in situations where normal people panicked, which was one of the reasons I trusted him.
I slid Dad’s phone across the table.
“There’s more.”
He watched the video of Daniel confronting Marcus.
Then I told him Daniel was dead.
Nathan leaned back.
“Five weeks ago?”
“Yes.”
“And your father crashed six weeks ago.”
“Yes.”
“Same kind of accident?”
“Single vehicle.”
Nathan’s expression darkened.
“That’s enough coincidence for one morning.”
We divided the work.
Nathan would investigate Daniel’s crash and the financial transfers.
Our cyber analyst, Priya, would preserve and authenticate every recording.
Our field investigator, Luis, would quietly look into mansion staff, Marcus’s movements, and Vivian’s finances.
I would get Dad out.
That proved harder than expected.
When I returned at nine, the gates were locked.
My access code had been deleted.
I pressed the intercom.
Marcus answered.
“You’re not welcome here.”
“I’m here for my father.”
“He doesn’t want to see you.”
“Put him on.”
“He’s sleeping.”
“I’ll wait.”
“Leave.”
“No.”
The intercom went dead.
I called Dad.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
Then I noticed something.
The estate’s groundskeeper was trimming hedges near the side gate.
“Samuel!”
He looked up.
Samuel Ortiz had worked for our family since I was twelve.
His eyes widened.
“Miss Emily?”
I walked closer.
“Open the gate.”
He hesitated.
Then looked toward the house.
That hesitation frightened me more than if he had refused.
“Samuel.”
He came closer to the bars.
“They changed the instructions.”
“Who?”
“Mrs. Hale.”
“Is my father okay?”
Samuel lowered his voice.
“I don’t know.”
“You’ve seen him?”
“Not since yesterday.”
“Has a doctor?”
“I haven’t seen Dr. Meyers in over a week.”
“Who gives Dad his medication?”
He looked toward the cameras.
“Miss Emily…”
“Please.”
Samuel swallowed.
“Mrs. Hale.”
I stepped closer.
“What else?”
“Mr. Richard tried leaving three weeks ago.”
My blood chilled.
“What happened?”
“He got to the garage. Mr. Marcus brought him back inside.”
“Brought him?”
Samuel’s face answered before his words did.
“He was angry.”
“Did Marcus hurt him?”
Samuel looked down.
“I didn’t see.”
Which meant yes.
I asked, “Can you open the gate?”
He shook his head.
“I’m sorry.”
I nodded.
“Then quit.”
His eyes widened.
“What?”
“Quit right now.”
“Miss Emily, I need—”
“I’ll triple your salary for six months.”
He stared at me.
“Why?”
“Because I need you to walk away from those cameras, go home, and tell Nathan Cole everything you’ve seen.”
I handed him Nathan’s business card through the gate.
Samuel looked at it.
Then at me.
“You can do that?”
“I can.”
“You work for a law firm?”
“No.”
“What do you do?”
“For the last six years?”
I smiled faintly.
“I make bad people regret leaving paperwork.”
Samuel laughed nervously.
Then his expression became serious.
“Your father kept asking for you.”
My throat tightened.
“He did?”
“Almost every day.”
I looked away.
Six years of silence suddenly felt different.
Not forgiven.
Not erased.
But different.
Samuel removed his gardening gloves.
He placed them on the ground.
Then walked toward the employee parking lot.
At 10:15, Nathan called.
“Emily.”
“What?”
“We pulled public records on Daniel’s crash.”
“And?”
“No brake marks.”
“That could mean he never saw whatever he hit.”
“He drove into a concrete barrier on a straight road at two in the afternoon.”
My stomach tightened.
Nathan continued.
“Toxicology showed zolpidem.”
“A sleeping medication?”
“High level.”
“Was it prescribed?”
“No.”
I closed my eyes.
“Same drug as Dad?”
“Not exactly, but similar effect.”
“That doesn’t prove murder.”
“No.”
Nathan paused.
“But his widow gave police something interesting.”
“What?”
“Daniel called her forty minutes before the crash. Told her he had proof Marcus Hale was stealing from the company and said he was going directly to Richard.”
I looked at the mansion gates.
“Did he?”
“Security logs show he entered Hale headquarters.”
“Did he leave?”
“Forty-eight minutes later.”
“Who else was there?”
“I’m working on it.”
My phone beeped.
Another call.
Unknown number.
I answered.
“Hello?”
A woman whispered, “Emily Hale?”
“Yes.”
“This is Margaret Brooks.”
Daniel’s widow.
I straightened.
“How did you get my number?”
“Your father gave it to Daniel months ago.”
“What?”
“He told Daniel if anything ever happened to him, find you.”
My eyes burned.
Margaret continued.
“My husband was afraid before he died.”
“I’m sorry.”
“He kept saying he had found something bigger than stolen money.”
“What?”
“He wouldn’t tell me.”
“Did he leave anything?”
Silence.
Then she said, “Yes.”
My pulse jumped.
“What?”
“A key.”
“To where?”
“I don’t know. A bank box maybe.”
“Mrs. Brooks, do not tell anyone else.”
“I haven’t.”
“Where are you?”
“At home.”
“Stay there.”
“I’m scared.”
“I know.”
“Daniel said Marcus was dangerous.”
I looked at the gates again.
“I believe him.”
Behind the iron bars, a black SUV appeared.
The gates opened.
Marcus was driving.
He saw me.
Smiled.
And continued through.
I stepped aside.
His window lowered.
“You’re still here?”
“Yes.”
“You should leave Dallas.”
“No.”
His smile disappeared.
“This city didn’t miss you.”
I leaned toward the window.
“Daniel Brooks might disagree.”
Marcus froze.
Only for an instant.
But it was enough.
I had spent years interviewing suspects in corporate investigations.
Innocent people usually asked questions.
Who is Daniel?
What do you mean?
Why are you mentioning him?
Marcus asked none.
Instead he said quietly, “Be careful, Emily.”
Then he drove away.
I watched the SUV disappear.
My phone rang again.
Nathan.
“More news.”
“Tell me.”
“I found out who was at Hale headquarters the day Daniel died.”
I waited.
Nathan’s voice became grim.
“Daniel entered at 1:06 p.m.”
“Yes.”
“Marcus arrived at 1:19.”
My grip tightened.
“And?”
“Daniel left at 1:54.”
“Marcus?”
“Two fourteen.”
Twenty minutes later.
Enough time to follow him.
“Anything else?”
“Yes.”
Nathan exhaled.
“Guess who deleted the building’s security footage from that afternoon.”
“I assume Marcus.”
“No.”
That surprised me.
“Who?”
May you like
Nathan said one name.
“Vivian.”
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