Chapter 11 - WHAT MY MOTHER SAID ABOUT DAD
Mom was taken to the same hospital.
Different floor.
Police everywhere.
I wasn’t allowed to see her.
Good.
I didn’t trust myself.
Her attorney arrived before sunrise and immediately claimed she had been delirious.
Ruiz disagreed.
“The officer says she was coherent.”
“What exactly did she say?”
Ruiz checked her notes.
“She said, ‘Walter found the accounts. Charles said he’d fix it. I didn’t know he would kill him.’”
The words hit like a physical blow.
I sat down.
Irene held my shoulder.
Ruiz continued carefully.
“She may be shifting blame.”
“I don’t care.”
“You should.”
I looked at her.
“If your mother participated, even indirectly, she may be trying to create a narrative where Fenwick acted alone.”
“So prove what happened.”
“That’s the plan.”
The court approved exhumation that afternoon.
I didn’t attend.
I couldn’t.
Instead, I went home for the first time since the attack.
Police tape still hung near the bedroom.
The safe was scarred.
Irene’s blood had been cleaned from the floor, but I could still see where it had been.
I stood there until Marcus walked in behind me.
“You shouldn’t be alone.”
“I’m not.”
“You know what I mean.”
I looked at the damaged safe.
“We’re selling the house.”
“Probably wise.”
“Irene never comes back here.”
Marcus nodded.
Then he held out a folder.
“What?”
“Recovered bank records.”
We sat in the study.
Fenwick and Mom had been moving money for years.
Not seven million.
Nearly twelve.
Some transfers dated back before Dad died.
Dad discovered the scheme approximately six weeks before his death.
Then he changed his will.
Or tried to.
Marcus found an unsigned draft prepared by another attorney.
The draft removed Mom from several financial roles.
It also ordered an independent audit of Fenwick’s management.
“He was going after them,” I said.
“Yes.”
“So they stopped him.”
“We don’t know yet.”
I looked at Marcus.
“We know.”
“We suspect.”
“I hate lawyers.”
“You pay me extremely well to say things you hate.”
He turned another page.
“Your father also created a private archive.”
“What archive?”
“His attorney mentions a secure storage box.”
“Where?”
“No location.”
My phone buzzed.
A text from an unknown number.
YOUR FATHER LEFT YOU THE TRUTH. CHECK THE CLOCK.
I showed Marcus.
“What clock?” he asked.
I already knew.
Dad had owned an antique grandfather clock.
It stood in the library.
He used to joke it was the only employee in the house who worked weekends.
We walked in together.
I opened the clock casing.
Nothing.
Marcus examined the back.
Then tapped one wooden panel.
Hollow.
We removed it.
Inside was a small key.
And an envelope.
My name was written across the front in Dad’s handwriting.
Austin.
My hands shook opening it.
Inside was one sentence.
If you are reading this, Charles has probably convinced everyone my death was natural.
Below it was an address.
And four words.
Trust Irene. Not Margaret.
May you like
I stared at the date.
Dad had written the letter five years before I met Irene.
