Chapter 3: The Woman Who Knew My Father Was Afraid
I spun around so quickly that the photograph slipped from my fingers.
Vanessa stood between me and the door.
She had changed out of her heels and into soft house slippers, but her expression was anything but relaxed. Her eyes moved from the envelope in my hand to the document spread across my father's desk.
For once, she wasn't smiling.
“Give that to me,” she said.
I backed away from the desk.
“Why?””
“Because it doesn't belong to you.””
“It's addressed to me.””
“Your father wrote many things when he was ill. Some of them made very little sense.””
I looked down at the document.
The signature was unmistakable.
My father's name appeared at the bottom in dark blue ink, followed by the date he'd signed it.
Six weeks before his death.
“He wrote this when he was perfectly healthy,” I said.
Vanessa took a step forward.
“You have no idea what you're reading.””
“Then explain it.””
“There is nothing to explain.””
“Why did he mention you?””
Her jaw tightened.
I held up the page.
“Why did he write that this should go to the authorities if you were involved in his death?””
Vanessa lunged for the paper.
I pulled it against my chest.
She caught the edge and tore it halfway before I twisted away. The document ripped with a sharp crack.
“Stop!”” I shouted.
She snatched the torn half from my hand.
For several seconds, we stood facing each other, breathing hard.
Then Vanessa looked at the page.
Her expression shifted from anger to something I had never seen on her face before.
Fear.
It disappeared almost immediately.
“You should never have come in here,” she said.
I reached for the photograph lying near the desk.
Vanessa moved faster.
She slapped it from my hand, sending it skidding beneath a bookcase.
“Don't touch anything else.””
“Why are you so afraid of a photograph?””
“I'm not afraid.””
“Then let me see it.””
“No.””
I stared at her.
My entire life, Vanessa had controlled every conversation by deciding when it began and when it ended. She could turn a question into an accusation, an accusation into a punishment, and a punishment into proof that I was ungrateful.
But something had changed.
She knew what was in the envelope.
And she was terrified that I might discover it.
“What happened to my father?”” I asked.
Vanessa's face hardened.
“He died in a car accident.””
“That's what the police report says.””
“Because that's what happened.””
“Then why did he write this?””
“Because your father was paranoid near the end.””
I shook my head.
“He wasn't paranoid.””
“You were a child, Nia. You saw only the parts of him he wanted you to see.””
“I was fifteen when he died. I remember him.””
“Then remember him as he was.””
She stepped closer.
“A sick man who became obsessed with money, business disputes, and imaginary betrayals. He was frightened of losing control, and he wrote things he didn't understand.””
I glanced at the document in her hand.
“Then why don't you want me to read it?””
“Because it will destroy what little peace this family has left.””
I almost laughed.
“What peace?””
Her eyes flashed.
“You think you're the only person who has suffered? You think raising you was easy? You think I wanted to spend three years dealing with your moods, your medical appointments, and your endless demands?””
“My medical appointments?””
“Yes, Nia. Your medical appointments.””
She tossed the torn document onto the desk.
“Do you know how much money I've spent keeping this household running?””
“My father left money for me.””
“Your father left debts.””
“That's not true.””
“You wouldn't know. You never bothered to understand his finances.””
I thought of the message from the unknown number.
Someone who promised your father I would protect you.
Then I remembered the note hidden inside the gown.
If Vanessa asks for this dress, run.
I looked at Vanessa.
“Why did you want the dress before I found the note?””
She went completely still.
The silence answered more than her words could have.
Then she reached for my arm.
“Come with me.””
I pulled away.
“Where?””
“Your room.””
“I want to know what's in that envelope.””
“You will know nothing if you keep behaving this way.””
“That's not an answer.””
Her hand closed around my wrist.
I tried to pull free.
She tightened her grip.
“Listen carefully,” she whispered.
“Tomorrow, Brianna will wear that gown. You will attend the showcase, smile when people speak to you, and keep your mouth shut. After that, you will forget this little adventure ever happened.””
“And if I don't?””
Vanessa's face came within inches of mine.
“Then you may discover that your father's money isn't the only thing you can lose.””
She released me and stepped aside.
I didn't move.
For the first time, I understood that she wasn't merely trying to take my dress.
She was trying to prevent me from discovering something.
And whatever that something was, it had frightened her enough to abandon the careful, respectable image she'd spent years building.
I left the study with the brass key hidden in my palm.
The torn document remained on the desk.
I hadn't managed to take the photograph, but I had memorized the date and my father's signature. More importantly, I'd seen the small reference number printed in the bottom corner.
*417.*
The same number hidden in the note inside my gown.
I returned to my bedroom and locked the door.
Then I pulled the dress from the wardrobe and examined the lining again. I had only opened a small section, but now I could see that the inner panel had been attached with two different kinds of thread.
The first was the thread I'd used to construct the gown.
The second was older, darker, and stitched with the same distinctive double stitch my father used.
I carefully removed the remaining stitches.
A narrow pocket appeared beneath the lining.
Inside it was a tiny black memory card wrapped in tissue.
I stared at it.
My father had owned a small digital camera that he used to photograph my early designs. He'd always transferred the pictures to his computer, but I'd never seen him use a memory card this small.
I placed it on the sewing table.
My laptop was old, but it still worked.
I connected a card reader and inserted the memory card.
A folder appeared on the screen.
There were seventeen files.
Most were photographs. Some were documents. One was a video file dated three days before my father's accident.
My mouth went dry.
I clicked the video.
The screen flickered.
My father appeared, seated at his desk in the same study I'd just left. He wore a pale blue shirt, and his reading glasses rested low on his nose.
He looked tired.
Not sick.
Tired in the way people looked when they'd spent too long pretending everything was normal.
“If you're watching this, Nia,” he began, “then I wasn't able to tell you the truth in person.””
I covered my mouth.
His voice was exactly as I remembered it.
Warm. Slightly rough. Impatient whenever he tried to explain something he believed should have been obvious.
“I need you to listen carefully. Don't show this recording to Vanessa. Don't tell Brianna you've found it. And whatever you do, don't let either of them take the blue dress.””
I leaned closer to the screen.
My father looked toward something outside the camera's view.
Then he lowered his voice.
“The dress isn't valuable because of the silk or the crystals. It's valuable because I hid something inside it that Vanessa has spent years trying to find.””
I felt the room tilt around me.
He continued.
“Three years ago, I discovered that money was disappearing from the Carter Foundation. At first, I thought it was a bookkeeping error. Then I found transfers authorized with my signature that I had never approved.””
He paused, rubbing his forehead.
“Someone had been moving money through several accounts, and the trail led back to a company Vanessa controlled before we married.””
I gripped the edge of the table.
My father looked directly into the camera.
“I confronted her. She denied everything. But the following week, someone broke into my office and stole the original records.””
He took a breath.
“I made copies. I hid them in a place no one would think to look.””
His gaze softened.
“Nia, you always wanted to become a designer. You used to sit on the floor beside my desk and sketch dresses while I worked. You thought I didn't notice how carefully you watched everything.””
A faint smile crossed his face.
“I noticed.””
Tears blurred my vision.
“I wanted to tell you the truth before I died, but I became afraid that doing so would put you in danger. If something happened to me, I needed you to have a way to protect yourself.””
He glanced toward the door.
Then he spoke so quietly that I had to turn up the volume.
“The original records prove that Vanessa moved money from accounts intended for your future. They also prove she knew about the investigation into my death before the police contacted our family.””
My fingers went numb.
The video continued.
“I don't know whether she caused the accident. I don't have enough evidence to make that claim. But I know she has been lying about what happened that night.””
My father leaned toward the camera.
“If Vanessa wants the blue dress, it's because she believes the records are still inside it. Don't let her have them. Find the person who helped me make the copies. His name is—”
The video stopped.
The screen went black.
I stared at it.
“No,” I whispered.
I clicked the file again.
The same thing happened.
The recording ended at the exact moment my father was about to reveal a name.
I searched the memory card for another video.
There was only one.
My phone vibrated.
The unknown number had sent another message.
You found the recording.
I typed:
Who are you?
The reply came almost instantly.
My name is Marcus Reed. I worked with your father. I was supposed to meet him the night he died.
My chest tightened.
What happened that night?
This time, the response took longer.
Then three messages arrived.
Your father called me at 8:17 p.m.
He said Vanessa had discovered the copies.
He told me to find you if anything happened to him.
I looked at the screen until the words blurred.
Did Vanessa kill my father? I typed.
The typing indicator appeared.
It vanished.
Then it returned.
Finally, Marcus answered.
I can't prove that. But I can prove she lied to the police.
A second message followed.
And Nia, the recording you found isn't the most important thing on that card.
I looked at the memory card reader.
“What else is there?”” I whispered.
Marcus sent one final message.
Open file seventeen. Then look at the photograph of the woman standing beside your father's car.
I returned to the folder.
There were seventeen files.
The last one was labeled *417_FINAL*.
I opened it.
A scanned document appeared, showing a bank transfer authorized two days before my father's accident. The amount was $680,000. The destination account belonged to a company I didn't recognize.
At the bottom of the page was a digital signature.
Vanessa's.
I scrolled down.
A second page loaded.
It contained a photograph of my father's black sedan, parked outside a warehouse. A woman stood beside the driver's door.
Her face was partially obscured by the camera angle, but I recognized the cream-colored coat.
I'd seen it hanging in Vanessa's wardrobe that afternoon.
My hands began to shake.
I zoomed in on the image.
The woman was holding something in her right hand.
A small silver object.
I enlarged it again.
It looked like a key.
Beneath the photograph, my father had typed a single sentence.
This is the last image taken before the car was moved.
A sound came from the hallway.
Footsteps.
Then the handle of my bedroom door rattled.
“Nia?”” Vanessa called.
I quickly closed the laptop.
“What are you doing in there?””
I shoved the memory card into the pocket of my jeans and pulled the gown over the back of my chair.
“Finishing the repairs.””
“Open the door.””
I didn't answer.
“Nia, I know you have that card.””
My blood turned cold.
She struck the door with her palm.
“Open it now!””
I backed away, staring at the lock.
Then I heard another voice from the hallway.
Brianna.
“Mommy, the man from the bank is here.””
Vanessa fell silent.
“What man?””
“The one asking about Dad's old accounts.””
A pause followed.
Then Brianna said something that made my heart stop.
“He says he has proof that Dad was alive three days after the police claimed he died.””
I stared at my bedroom door.
May you like
Because if Brianna was telling the truth, then everything I thought I knew about my father's death was about to collapse.
And Vanessa had just realized that I might be the only person who could explain why.
