Chapter 7: The Woman Who Killed My Father
“Say that again.””
My voice barely sounded like mine.
Brianna sat beside me in the back seat, clutching her purse against her chest. Her mascara had run down her cheeks, and her hands were shaking.
“Adrian told me Mom was involved in Dad's death.””
I stared at her.
“You expect me to believe that?””
“No. I expect you to understand why I've been so scared.””
Marlene glanced at us through the rearview mirror.
“Both of you need to calm down. We're not discussing something like this in a moving car.””
I turned toward Brianna.
“How long have you known?””
“About two weeks.””
“Two weeks?””
“I didn't know if it was true!””
“You knew someone might have killed our father, and you said nothing?””
Brianna started crying.
“I was afraid, Nia!””
I looked out the window.
The city lights blurred past.
My father had been dead for four years.
Four years of birthdays without his terrible singing. Four Christmas mornings without his habit of burning the pancakes. Four years of my mother telling everyone that he had died after losing control of his car on a rainy highway.
I remembered the funeral.
I remembered Denise standing beside his casket, wearing a black dress and accepting condolences.
I remembered Brianna crying into Adrian's shoulder.
And I remembered my mother whispering something to me before the service.
Your father would want you to stop asking questions.
At the time, I thought she was grieving.
Now, I wasn't sure what she had been afraid of.
Marlene drove us to her apartment.
She locked the doors, closed the curtains, and placed three cups of coffee on the kitchen table.
“Start from the beginning,” she told Brianna.
Brianna took a shaky breath.
“Adrian found an old police report in his father's office. It was about Dad's accident.””
I leaned forward.
“What report?””
“He said the original investigation had been reopened privately because someone discovered inconsistencies.””
“What inconsistencies?””
“Dad's car had been tampered with.””
I felt my stomach twist.
“Who told him that?””
“His father.””
“Charles Whitmore?””
She nodded.
I laughed bitterly.
“So Charles Whitmore, the man who stole Grandma's collection, is suddenly interested in solving my father's murder?””
“I know how it sounds.””
“It sounds like another lie.””
Brianna reached into her purse and removed a small envelope.
“Adrian gave me this.””
Inside was a photocopy of a police document.
The date was November 18, four years earlier.
The report stated that investigators had discovered evidence of possible mechanical interference with the vehicle's braking system.
A handwritten note appeared in the margin.
*Inspection requested by R. Carter, three days before incident.*
I stared.
“Dad knew something was wrong with his car?””
Brianna nodded.
“He took it to a mechanic.””
I read the next page.
The mechanic had reported that a brake line had been damaged.
But the official investigation concluded that the damage was consistent with the collision.
There was no further inquiry.
“Who signed the final report?”” I asked.
Brianna pointed to the bottom.
My blood ran cold.
*Jonathan Vale — Legal Representative for the Carter Family.*
I looked up.
“Why was Jonathan involved in a police investigation?””
Marlene took the document.
“He shouldn't have been.””
I turned to Brianna.
“What else did Adrian tell you?””
She hesitated.
“He said Dad had discovered that Mom was transferring money to a company connected to Jonathan.””
“What company?””
“Vale Holdings.””
Marlene immediately stood.
“Wait.””
She walked to her desk and opened her laptop.
After several minutes of searching through the documents Vivian had given us, she found a familiar name.
“Here.””
She turned the screen toward us.
A corporate filing showed that Vale Holdings had received several payments from a trust connected to the Bellamy estate.
The dates went back more than twenty years.
And one payment had been made six days before my father's death.
The amount was $480,000.
I stared at the screen.
“Where did that money come from?””
Marlene scrolled down.
“The account belonged to Denise Carter.””
My mother.
Brianna covered her mouth.
“No.””
I felt something inside me harden.
My mother had stolen my dress.
She had filed a fraudulent claim.
She had lied about my birth.
Now there was evidence she had transferred nearly half a million dollars to the attorney who represented the family responsible for destroying my grandmother's career.
And possibly my father's life.
I stood.
“I'm going to the police.””
Marlene caught my wrist.
“Not yet.””
“Why?””
“Because these documents are incomplete. We need someone who can verify them.””
“Who?””
“Vivian.””
I looked at Brianna.
“Where is she?””
Brianna shook her head.
“I don't know.””
I called the number Vivian had given me.
It went straight to voicemail.
I tried again.
Nothing.
Then my phone vibrated.
A message from an unknown number.
*Stop looking into Robert Carter's death. Your father made a choice. Don't turn him into a victim.*
I showed Marlene.
She read it twice.
“That's a threat.””
Brianna looked terrified.
“He knows where we are.””
Marlene immediately moved toward the curtains.
Across the street, a black sedan was parked beneath a streetlight.
Its headlights were off.
I recognized the vehicle.
It was the same car that had been outside my mother's house.
Marlene turned off the kitchen lights.
“Everyone away from the windows.””
We gathered in the hallway.
Then the doorbell rang.
Once.
Twice.
A man's voice came through the door.
“Ms. Carter? I'm here on behalf of Mr. Vale.””
Marlene whispered, “Don't move.””
The doorbell rang again.
Then my phone vibrated.
A message appeared.
*I know you're inside. I only need the original agreement.*
I looked at the metal box sitting beside the kitchen table.
The original trust documents were inside.
I grabbed it.
Marlene pointed toward the back exit.
“Go. I'll call the police.””
We slipped through the rear door and entered the alley.
Brianna followed me.
We ran until we reached the next street.
A taxi was stopped at the traffic light.
I waved frantically.
“Please! We need a ride!””
The driver unlocked the doors.
We climbed inside.
“Where to?”” he asked.
I looked at Brianna.
She was trembling.
Then I remembered the silver flower necklace.
The number engraved beneath it.
0417.
My father's safety deposit box.
“Federal Bank on Madison Avenue,” I told the driver.
Twenty minutes later, we stood inside the bank.
A manager named Mr. Harrison examined the key and the identification documents I had brought from my father's toolbox.
He frowned.
“This account has been inactive for four years.””
“Can we access it?””
“Let me verify the authorization.””
He disappeared into the back office.
Brianna leaned toward me.
“Do you think we'll find something?””
“I hope so.””
“Do you hate me?””
The question caught me off guard.
I looked at her.
She was no longer wearing the confident expression she used whenever she wanted to win an argument.
She looked like a frightened little girl.
“I don't know what I feel right now.””
She nodded.
“That's fair.””
I looked down at my hands.
“Did you really know about the dress dispute before Mom filed it?””
She swallowed.
“Yes.””
“Did you help them?””
“I gave Adrian photographs of the gown.””
I closed my eyes.
“Why?””
“He told me the dress could prove my connection to the Bellamy estate. He said if I helped him, we'd both receive enough money to start over.””
“And you believed him?””
“I wanted to believe him.””
She looked at me.
“I spent my whole life feeling like I was competing with you. Mom always made sure I knew I was the favorite, but somehow I never felt secure. Adrian said I could finally have something that belonged to me.””
I didn't answer.
She wiped her eyes.
“I was wrong.””
Before I could respond, Mr. Harrison returned.
“Ms. Carter, your father's box is still active under a special preservation order.””
“What does that mean?””
“He instructed us not to release its contents until both daughters appeared together.””
I stared at him.
“Both daughters?””
He nodded.
“Your father specifically named Nia Carter and Brianna Carter.””
We looked at each other.
Mr. Harrison led us to a private room.
He placed a small metal box on the table.
I used the key.
Inside were three things.
A USB drive.
A sealed envelope.
And a small audio recorder.
My hands trembled as I opened the envelope.
It contained a handwritten note from my father.
If my daughters have reached this box together, then I have failed to protect them from the people who wanted our family divided.
I read the next line aloud.
Do not trust Denise. Do not trust Jonathan. And above all, do not trust Charles Whitmore.
Brianna gasped.
I continued.
The truth about my death is on the recording. But before you listen, understand this: the person who arranged the attack wasn't acting alone.
I looked at Brianna.
“An attack?””
She pointed toward the audio recorder.
“Play it.””
I pressed the button.
Static filled the room.
Then my father's voice emerged.
“Nia. Brianna. If you're hearing this, something happened to me.””
I covered my mouth.
His voice was older, tired, but unmistakable.
“I discovered that Jonathan Vale had been using the Bellamy trust to finance a fraudulent transfer of intellectual property. Evelyn had evidence. Margaret had evidence. And I found the original records.””
A pause.
Then he continued.
“Denise knows about the transfer. She believes she's protecting the girls, but Jonathan has convinced her that the Whitmores will destroy us if she refuses to cooperate.””
I looked at Brianna.
The recording continued.
“Three days ago, I found evidence that someone had tampered with my car. I confronted Denise. She told me she knew nothing about it.””
My heart began pounding.
“I'm not sure I believe her.””
A long silence followed.
Then my father spoke again.
“If anything happens to me, find the second flower. It contains the name of the person who ordered—”
The recording stopped.
I pressed the button again.
Nothing.
The file ended.
I stared at the recorder.
“The second flower.””
Brianna slowly opened the photograph she had shown me earlier.
“The one missing from the gown.””
I nodded.
Then I noticed something on the back of the photograph.
A tiny handwritten number.
*2.*
Underneath it was another message.
*The flower is not in the dress anymore.*
I looked at Brianna.
“Where did you take the lining?””
Her face changed.
“Adrian took it.””
“Where?””
“He said he was bringing it to his father's office.””
I stood immediately.
“We need to find him.””
But before we could leave, Mr. Harrison returned with another envelope.
“This was attached to your father's original instructions. He asked us to release it only if both daughters were present.””
I opened it.
Inside was a single photograph.
My father stood beside Denise in front of a hospital.
They were holding two newborn babies.
But unlike the other photographs, this one showed something written in the corner.
*November 2000.*
My birth year.
I looked closer.
The woman holding one baby wasn't Denise.
It was Vivian Shaw.
And the man standing beside her wasn't my father.
It was Jonathan Vale.
Brianna whispered, “Why would Jonathan be holding you?””
I turned the photograph over.
A sentence had been written in my father's handwriting.
*One of my daughters was switched before the adoption was finalized. I never discovered which one.*
I stared at the words.
Then I looked at Brianna.
If my father had never discovered which baby had been switched, the birth records might not be what we believed.
And the person who knew the truth might be the very man who had spent decades manipulating our family.
Jonathan Vale.
My phone rang.
It was Vivian.
I answered immediately.
“Nia?””
Her voice was breathless.
“Listen carefully. I found the second flower.””
“Where?””
“In Jonathan's office.””
“How did you get there?””
“That's not important. I have the document.””
I gripped the phone.
“What's on it?””
She paused.
Then she whispered:
“Your father's killer's name.””
Before I could ask anything else, I heard a crash.
May you like
Vivian screamed.
Then the line went dead.
