Chapter 3 - The Ghost of the Past
The mention of Sarah’s name hit Mark like a physical blow, stealing the air straight from his lungs. For a sickening second, the gravel driveway seemed to tilt beneath his boots. He clutched Lily tighter, the little girl letting out a soft whimper at the sudden tension in her father's arms. Arthur didn’t pull a weapon from his coat; instead, he withdrew a small, worn leather-bound journal with familiar frayed edges. It was Sarah’s personal diary—the one that had vanished from her hospital nightstand the very night she supposedly died of heart failure three years ago.
"You’re lying," Mark said, his voice cracking slightly despite his desperate attempts to maintain control. "Sarah’s dead. You people made sure of that when she tried to expose the embezzlement scheme."
Arthur stepped closer into the dim light of the lanterns, his smile fading into a look of cold, calculating pity. "People die all the time in high-speed accidents, Mark. But secrets? Secrets have a stubborn way of surviving, especially when they’re written down in ink. Did you really think she didn't leave a backup copy somewhere safe before she took that final drive?"
Mark’s mind raced. He remembered the encrypted thumb drive Sarah had slipped into Lily’s stuffed rabbit the afternoon before the crash. He had it hidden safely in the lining of his coat pocket right now. But Arthur’s calm demeanor suggested he already knew about it, or worse, that he had a leverage Mark hadn't anticipated.
"If you have the journal, then you know what Richard’s foundation is built on," Mark said, his eyes darting toward the main house where the silhouette of guests could still be seen moving behind the stained-glass windows. "Human trafficking, embezzlement, corporate extortion. It’s all over."
"And who is going to believe a grieving father with a history of domestic instability?" Arthur asked smoothly, gesturing toward Mark’s bruised eye. "A man who kidnapped his own daughter from a legal custody hearing? The courts in this county belong to Richard, Mark. They always have."
Lily suddenly stirred, her small hand reaching out toward the journal in Arthur’s grip. "That’s Mommy’s book," she whispered, her voice cutting through the tense air like a knife. "Grandpa took it from her room when she was sleeping."
May you like
Arthur’s gaze flicked down to the little girl, a flicker of genuine discomfort crossing his hardened features before he quickly masked it with bureaucratic coldness. "Smart girl," Arthur muttered. He tossed the leather journal onto the hood of Mark’s beat-up sedan with a dull thud. "Read page forty-two, Mark. You’ll find out why your wife really crashed that car."
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