Chapter 8 - WHAT DAD KEPT
Ruth's garage smelled like cardboard and cold concrete.
Nora stood beside me while our aunt pulled a metal document box from beneath a shelf of paint cans.
“I should have asked you directly,” Ruth said.
“Yes,” Nora answered.
There was no comfort in her voice.
Ruth didn't ask for any.
We photographed the box where it stood, then called Daniel before opening it.
He told us to preserve everything and make copies for the investigators without writing on the originals.
Inside were tax records, letters, and a yellow legal pad in my father's square handwriting.
He had been sick when he wrote the final pages.
The letters drifted downhill.
Ask Martin about duplicate reimbursements.
Ask Evelyn about Pine Hollow deposit.
The purchase had happened after Dad died.
The planning had started before.
Nora lifted an envelope addressed to both of us.
She read silently, then passed it over.
Dad hadn't accused anyone of a crime.
He had noticed discrepancies and requested an independent review.
He wanted us to have copies because he was tired, on medication, and afraid he'd forget which questions remained unanswered.
Near the bottom, he had written:
If someone tells you asking questions is disloyal, ask twice.
I sat on an overturned bucket.
For four years, I'd used loyalty as a reason not to look.
Dad had left me the opposite instruction.
Nora stood at the open garage door.
“He believed something was wrong.”
“Yes.”
“And I spent four years wondering whether he'd be ashamed of me.”
I started to speak.
She shook her head.
We delivered the box through the process Ortiz arranged.
Then I went back to the hospital, where Maya was eating toast in tiny, stubborn bites.
“Did you find something?” she asked.
“Enough to keep looking.”
I told her about Dad's letter.
She listened, then looked down at her plate.
“I wish you'd listened when I asked.”
“So do I.”
That evening, Daniel called.
He had compared one of Martin's emailed documents with an original authorization from the box.
The signature looked identical, down to a stray ink mark.
It might have been copied.
They would need proper examination.
“But there's another document,” he said.
“An affidavit from last year.”
I remembered signing it.
This time, there was no comforting doubt.
May you like
Daniel read the first line.
“I have personally reviewed all distributions and found them accurate.”
