Chapter 12 - THE WOMAN MY FATHER ALREADY KNEW
“How could he write Irene’s name before you met her?” Marcus asked.
“I don’t know.”
My mind raced.
I met Irene four years ago at a charity event.
At least, that was what I believed.
Then something came back.
Her last name before we married.
Morales.
Dad had done business with a Daniel Morales.
I called Irene immediately.
“Did you know my father?”
Silence.
“Austin…”
The hesitation answered me.
“You knew him.”
“When I was younger.”
“How?”
“My dad worked for him.”
I sat down hard.
“Doing what?”
“Accounting.”
Marcus’s head snapped toward me.
“Your father was Daniel Morales?”
“Yes.”
I stared at Irene through the phone screen.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because my dad made me promise.”
“Promise what?”
“Never to talk about Walter Wentworth’s finances.”
I felt anger rising.
Not at her exactly.
At secrets.
At everyone keeping pieces of my life from me.
“Irene, my father left a note telling me to trust you.”
She began crying.
“What?”
“He wrote your name.”
“That’s impossible.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“I was nineteen.”
“Why did he know you?”
“My dad sometimes brought me to the office after college classes.”
“What happened to your father?”
Another silence.
“He died six months after your father.”
Marcus and I looked at each other.
“How?”
“Car accident.”
My skin prickled.
“Accident?”
“That’s what police said.”
“Did your father ever mention Fenwick?”
“Yes.”
My breathing slowed.
“What did he say?”
“He hated him.”
Irene wiped her face.
“My dad told me Mr. Fenwick was moving money through shell companies. He said Walter had finally believed him.”
The entire puzzle shifted.
Dad hadn’t discovered the theft alone.
Daniel Morales had helped him.
Then both men died within six months.
“Why didn’t you tell me when we met?”
“Because I didn’t know who you were at first.”
“And later?”
“I was afraid you’d think I approached you because of your family.”
“That would’ve been better than me finding out like this.”
“I know.”
The answer hurt because she didn’t defend herself.
She simply accepted it.
Then she added, “There’s more.”
Of course there was.
“My father left me a safety deposit box.”
“Where?”
“He never told me. Just a number.”
“What number?”
She recited eight digits.
Marcus entered them into his laptop.
Nothing.
Then he tried a state banking registry.
A match appeared.
A small private bank in Phoenix.
We drove there with Detective Ruiz.
The box had been inactive for years.
Irene was the listed beneficiary.
Inside were tax records, flash drives, copies of wire transfers, and handwritten notes from both our fathers.
Proof.
Real proof.
Fenwick had stolen more than twenty million dollars over thirteen years.
Mom had received millions.
Daniel Morales had discovered it.
My father planned to report Fenwick to federal authorities.
Then Dad died.
Daniel kept gathering evidence.
Then he died too.
At the bottom of the box was one last envelope.
On it, Daniel had written:
If anything happens to me, Charles Fenwick owns a cabin outside Flagstaff under the name Robert Hale.
Ruiz immediately requested a search warrant.
Two hours later, state police surrounded the cabin.
They found Fenwick’s SUV outside.
The door was open.
Inside, the fireplace was burning.
Documents were scattered everywhere.
Blood stained the kitchen floor.
But Charles Fenwick was gone.
And in the bedroom, police found a chair with ropes tied around it.
Someone had been held there recently.
Then Ruiz called me.
“Austin, we found a photograph.”
“What photograph?”
“Your wife.”
I looked at Irene.
Ruiz continued.
“It was taken yesterday.”
I stopped breathing.
“Yesterday she was in the hospital.”
“I know.”
The picture showed Irene through the hospital window.
Taken from outside.
May you like
Someone had still been watching us.
And Fenwick wasn’t working alone.
