Chapter 6 - THE PRICE OF LOVING A MAN WITH A DARK PAST"Your father was there when my mother died."
Grace spoke those words in Marisol's office without raising her voice.
Somehow, that made them harder to hear.
I stared at the photograph.
"Being there doesn't prove he started the fire."
"I didn't say he started it."
"Then what are you saying?"
"I'm saying my mother might have been alive behind that door, and your father knew something about what happened."
I looked up.
Her eyes were wet.
"Can you honestly tell me that doesn't frighten you?"
I couldn't.
Not anymore.
Ruth had already explained that the original photograph came from a convenience store surveillance system.
Her father had obtained a copy before the business replaced its cameras.
Marisol arranged for the image and other documents to be professionally preserved and authenticated.
She also insisted we bring the information to an investigator outside the immediate circle of people connected to the original case.
A state investigator named Simone Park agreed to review it.
But the process would take time.
And time was beginning to feel dangerous.
On the drive home, Grace sat beside me in silence.
I wanted to say something that would make her feel better.
There was nothing.
Eventually, she spoke.
"Do you know what I hated most after my mother died?"
I shook my head.
"People telling me to move on."
Her eyes remained on the road.
"Teachers. Neighbors. Even distant relatives. They all said the same thing."
She lowered her voice.
"Your mother would want you to be happy."
I tightened my grip on the steering wheel.
"Wouldn't she?"
"Of course. But happiness isn't a switch. You can't just turn off grief because someone tells you the past is over."
I glanced at her.
"What would you have wanted them to say?"
She thought for a moment.
"That they were willing to listen."
I nodded.
"Then I'll listen."
She turned toward me.
"Even if what I discover hurts your family?"
I swallowed.
"Even then."
That promise frightened me.
But I meant it.
When we returned to the estate, a black Mercedes was parked outside the front entrance.
Victor Cross stood beside it.
He was sixty-three years old, tall and silver-haired, with the polished confidence of a man accustomed to walking into rooms where everyone already knew his name.
He smiled when he saw me.
"Nathan! There you are."
Then he noticed Grace.
His smile changed.
"Miss Ellis."
Grace stopped walking.
"Mr. Cross."
Victor's eyes lingered on her face.
"You're the image of your mother."
I felt Grace stiffen.
"You remember her?"
"Of course. Tragic business, what happened."
His voice was smooth.
Too smooth.
Grace stared directly at him.
"Did you attend her funeral?"
Victor blinked.
"I beg your pardon?"
"My mother's funeral. Were you there?"
He cleared his throat.
"I don't recall."
"Neither do I. But I remember every person who came."
The smile disappeared from his face.
I stepped between them.
"Victor, what do you want?"
He looked at me.
"We need to talk about the waterfront development."
"Not now."
"I'm afraid it can't wait."
I turned toward Grace.
"Would you mind giving us a moment?"
She hesitated.
Then nodded.
"Of course."
As she walked toward the house, Victor watched her.
When she was out of earshot, he sighed.
"Nathan, I wish you'd listen to my daughter."
I felt my anger rise.
"About what?"
"That girl."
"Her name is Grace."
"Yes, well. Grace."
He adjusted his cuff links.
"She's becoming a distraction."
I stepped closer.
"She's a person, Victor. Not a distraction."
He studied me.
"Your father was much better at keeping business and sentiment separate."
"My father isn't here."
"No. Unfortunately."
For the first time, I heard something almost mocking in his voice.
Victor removed a document folder from his car.
"I need your signature on the revised waterfront agreement."
I didn't take it.
"What's changed?"
"Nothing significant. A financing adjustment. We need to release the next development payment."
"Which contractors receive it?"
He paused.
"What?"
"List the contractors."
"Nathan, the board has reviewed everything."
"Then it shouldn't be difficult to show me."
His expression hardened.
"I have been managing these projects since before you finished college."
"And I've been trusting that you managed them honestly."
Victor studied me.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
I thought about the photograph in Marisol's office.
The locked warehouse door.
The missing millions.
The threatening messages.
I wanted to confront him with everything.
Instead, I remembered Marisol's warning.
"I won't approve any new payments until an independent audit is completed."
Victor's eyes narrowed.
"An audit?"
"Yes."
"Do you understand what that could do to the financing?"
"If the accounts are clean, it should protect us."
He laughed without humor.
"You sound exactly like your father when he started listening to the wrong people."
My heart thudded.
"What wrong people?"
Victor looked toward the house.
"People who think paperwork is more important than keeping businesses alive."
"Are you talking about Clara Ellis?"
He became very still.
Then he smiled.
"Careful, Nathan."
"Is that a threat?"
"It's advice."
He returned the folder to his car.
"Your father spent his entire life building something magnificent. Don't destroy it because a pretty employee has filled your head with old grievances."
I stared at him.
"You need to leave."
Victor's expression darkened.
"You are making a mistake."
"Then it's mine to make."
He stepped closer.
"Remember something, son. I helped build the empire you inherited."
"I'm not your son."
For a moment, he looked genuinely offended.
Then he opened his car door.
"We'll discuss this again when you've calmed down."
He drove away.
I stood in the driveway long after his car disappeared.
That evening, I returned to my father's library.
For hours, I searched through old trust records, board minutes, and donation files.
Grace joined me after dinner.
Neither of us mentioned our argument in Marisol's office.
Instead, we worked quietly.
She examined old folders while I searched my father's desk.
Near midnight, Grace discovered a handwritten entry in a donation register.
"Nathan?"
I looked up.
"Yes?"
"Did your father use blue ink?"
"Almost exclusively."
She turned the book toward me.
A note had been squeezed into the margin beside a 2018 donation to a neighborhood rebuilding program.
The handwriting was unmistakable.
My father's.
It contained a name and a short instruction.
For C. Ellis. The greenhouse. Third row. Seventeenth brick.
I stared at it.
"C. Ellis?"
Grace swallowed.
"My mother's first initial."
"But this was written four years after she died."
We looked at one another.
My father had left instructions connected to a dead woman.
And he had hidden them inside a book no one had opened in years.
I grabbed a flashlight.
Grace stood.
"Where are you going?"
"To the greenhouse."
She followed me into the hallway.
"Nathan, it's almost midnight."
"I know."
The old greenhouse stood beyond the eastern garden.
My mother had loved growing orchids there before she died.
After her death, my father had locked most of it away.
We crossed the dark lawn beneath a cloudy sky.
Inside, the greenhouse smelled of damp soil and decaying leaves.
I counted the rows of planting benches.
One.
Two.
Three.
Then the brickwork beneath them.
Fourteen.
Fifteen.
Sixteen.
Seventeen.
I knelt.
The seventeenth brick was slightly loose.
Grace held the flashlight as I worked it free.
Behind it was a small metal compartment.
And inside the compartment sat a rectangular steel box.
My hands shook as I lifted it out.
There was a label attached to the lid.
May you like
The words were written in my father's handwriting.
"IF MY SON FINDS THIS, TELL HIM I WAS TOO MUCH OF A COWARD TO SAVE HER."
Related Stories
