Chapter 16 - NINETEEN YEARS AGO
The second ledger was exactly where Chloe said.
Behind a false panel.
Wrapped in plastic.
Old-fashioned.
Handwritten.
Eleanor trusted paper more than computers.
For once, her paranoia helped us.
The early pages documented business payments.
Bribes.
Consulting fees.
Political donations.
Then came the year my mother died.
My father sat beside me at his dining table.
It was almost midnight.
We read in silence.
One entry named Thomas Mercer.
Eleanor’s late husband.
Dominic’s father.
I had met him twice before he died.
Quiet man.
Cold eyes.
I barely remembered him.
The ledger showed he had paid a private investigator.
The same investigator my father hired.
I stared.
“Why?”
My father’s face was hard.
“We were competing for a waterfront property.”
“That’s it?”
“No.”
He turned the page.
My mother had discovered that Thomas Mercer was bribing zoning officials.
She planned to expose him.
Two weeks later, she died.
My breathing changed.
My father noticed.
“Don’t jump ahead.”
“I’m not.”
I was.
Of course I was.
The next pages showed payments after her death.
But nothing that directly proved murder.
No order.
No confession.
Just money.
My father looked devastated.
“I spent years wondering.”
“Did you know Mercer was involved?”
“I suspected.”
“And you let me marry Dominic?”
The question came out sharper than I intended.
He flinched.
“I had no proof.”
“You had suspicion.”
“Yes.”
“You interfered with a business deal but not my marriage?”
He closed his eyes.
“That sounds bad.”
“It is bad.”
“I thought Thomas’s sins belonged to Thomas.”
I stood.
“And Dominic’s sins belong to Dominic.”
“Yes.”
“And Eleanor’s belong to Eleanor.”
“Yes.”
“Then why did you hide all this from me?”
He looked at me.
“Because I was afraid you’d think I was trying to control your life.”
I laughed once.
“You were controlling my life.”
“Yes.”
He rubbed his face.
“I did it badly.”
The honesty took some of my anger away.
Not all.
We kept reading.
Then found a final attached envelope.
Inside was a photocopy of the missing investigator’s handwritten report.
My father stared at it.
Nineteen years.
And there it was.
The report didn’t say my mother was murdered.
It said her car’s brake line showed signs of deliberate damage.
My stomach turned.
Below that:
Potential suspect access: Thomas Mercer employee garage.
My father stood.
He walked away from the table.
Then stopped at the window.
I didn’t follow him.
Some grief needs distance.
After several minutes, he said,
“I told her not to go after Mercer.”
His voice broke.
“She told me to stop being a coward.”
I smiled through tears.
“That sounds like Mom.”
He laughed once.
Broken.
Then my phone rang.
The investigator.
I answered.
“We found the mechanic.”
I froze.
“What mechanic?”
“The one who serviced your mother’s car the day before the crash.”
My father turned.
The investigator continued.
“He’s alive.”
May you like
My heart hammered.
“And he remembers who paid him.”
