Chapter 6 - My Father Didn't Die Naturally
My father's death had always been a closed chapter.
Heart attack.
Age fifty-eight.
No suspicion.
No investigation.
But the message changed everything.
I pulled his old medical records.
The first thing I noticed was a missing page.
Then another.
I called the hospital.
They refused to discuss it.
So I called the attorney who handled my father's estate.
He was retired.
But he remembered.
“Adrian,” he said, “your father asked me to prepare a second will.”
“What happened to it?”
“I was told he destroyed it.”
“Who told you?”
Silence.
“Mr. Mercer.”
My father's lawyer sighed.
“Your mother.”
I closed my eyes.
“Was Marcus involved?”
“I never met him.”
“But my father did.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“He believed Marcus was stealing from the company.”
My heart pounded.
“Then why did Marcus disappear?”
“Your father planned to expose him.”
“And then my father died.”
“Yes.”
The timing was impossible to ignore.
I returned to the old estate.
Clara came with me.
We searched the library.
Behind a bookshelf, I found a hidden compartment.
Inside was a handwritten letter.
My father's handwriting.
Adrian,
If you are reading this, something has happened to me.
My hands trembled.
Trust no one who tells you family must remain silent.
I looked at Clara.
She moved closer.
The letter continued.
Your mother believes she is protecting you. She isn't. Marcus has threatened her. But fear has made her dangerous.
I stopped reading.
Clara touched my arm.
“Keep going.”
The company belongs to you. But more importantly, your life belongs to you. Do not let anyone choose the person you love.
I swallowed.
The final paragraph was worse.
If Clara is still in your life, protect her. If she has left, find out why. She has done nothing wrong.
I stared at the page.
My father had known.
He had known my mother might try to separate us.
He had known Marcus was dangerous.
And he had tried to warn me.
The final line was written darker than the others.
The evidence is beneath the house.
We searched the basement.
Behind an old wine rack was a steel box.
Inside:
Bank statements.
Photographs.
Contracts.
And a small recording device.
We played it.
My father's voice filled the room.
“I know what you're doing.”
A second voice answered.
Marcus.
“You're too late.”
My father said:
“You won't touch my son.”
Marcus laughed.
“Your son will destroy himself.”
The recording ended.
Clara looked at me.
“Your father knew.”
“Yes.”
“And your mother?”
“She knew too.”
A noise came from upstairs.
We froze.
Victor's men moved toward the stairs.
Then the lights went out.
A crash.
Glass shattered.
Someone ran through the hallway.
Victor shouted.
I grabbed Clara.
“Stay behind me.”
We moved toward the exit.
Then a voice came through the darkness.
“You should have left the past alone.”
Marcus.
I couldn't see him.
“Show yourself.”
“You're just like your father.”
“What did you do to him?”
A pause.
Then:
“I didn't kill him.”
I stopped.
“Who did?”
Marcus laughed softly.
“Ask your mother.”
The lights came back on.
He was gone.
But on the floor was a photograph.
My mother.
Standing beside my father's hospital bed.
And behind her was Marcus.
The photograph had been taken the night my father died.
I looked at Clara.
“We're going to find out what really happened.”
May you like
She took my hand.
This time, she didn't let go.
