PART 10 — THE WOMAN WHO KNEW HOW MY FATHER DIED
Catherine pressed her hand over Chloe's mouth.
Jonathan stood beside the hidden door, listening.
Downstairs, her mother's voice remained calm.
Almost gentle.
That frightened Catherine more than shouting would have.
“Catherine,” her mother called again. “I know you're frightened.”
Jonathan leaned toward her.
“There's another exit.”
“Where?”
He pointed toward the back wall.
Catherine followed him.
He pushed aside several wooden panels, revealing a narrow tunnel leading behind the house.
“How did you know this existed?”
“Your father showed it to me.”
“Why?”
“Because he expected this day to come.”
Catherine looked at Chloe.
“Take her.”
Jonathan shook his head.
“No. You go.”
“What?”
“They're here for you. I'll distract them.”
“I'm not leaving you.”
“You need to understand something, Catherine.”
He looked at her seriously.
“Your father didn't spend years preparing for his death. He spent years preparing for what would happen after it.”
Catherine stared at him.
Jonathan continued.
“He knew his enemies would come after you.”
A loud crash came from downstairs.
The hidden bookshelf moved.
Someone was searching the room.
Jonathan pushed Catherine toward the tunnel.
“Go.”
She grabbed Chloe's hand.
“Come with us.”
“I'll follow.”
Catherine hesitated.
Then she entered the tunnel.
Jonathan closed the panel behind them.
Darkness swallowed them.
Catherine carried Chloe through the narrow passage.
Every step felt like walking through her childhood.
Her father had built this.
He had known.
He had known something terrible was coming.
And yet he had never told her.
When they reached the end, Catherine pushed open a wooden hatch.
They emerged behind the house.
A black SUV was parked near the trees.
Jonathan was already there.
He had somehow escaped.
“Get in.”
They drove for twenty minutes before Jonathan finally stopped.
Catherine turned toward him.
“Now you're going to tell me the truth.”
Jonathan nodded.
“Your father was investigating financial crimes inside Whitmore Industries.”
“My company?”
“Yes.”
“Who was involved?”
“Several executives.”
“Mark?”
“No.”
“Teresa?”
“Yes.”
Catherine's stomach tightened.
“Then my mother?”
Jonathan stared through the windshield.
“Your mother knew about it.”
“But she didn't order my father's death.”
“No.”
“Then who did?”
Jonathan reached into the glove compartment.
He pulled out an old photograph.
Catherine looked at it.
Her father stood beside three men.
One was Teresa's brother.
The second was her attorney.
The third was a man Catherine didn't recognize.
“Who is he?”
Jonathan answered quietly.
“Victor Hale.”
Catherine frowned.
“Who's Victor Hale?”
“The real owner behind several shell companies that were draining your father's business.”
Catherine studied the photograph.
“Why have I never heard of him?”
“Because Victor Hale doesn't appear on paper.”
Jonathan handed her another document.
Catherine scanned it.
Then froze.
The shell companies were connected to one bank.
Her mother's private bank.
“No.”
Jonathan nodded.
“Your mother helped move the money.”
“Then she was stealing from my father.”
“Yes.”
Catherine's hands trembled.
“But why would she?”
“Because your father discovered the transfers.”
“What happened next?”
Jonathan's voice became quieter.
“He confronted her.”
Catherine closed her eyes.
“Did they fight?”
“According to your father's notes, he planned to file criminal charges.”
Catherine stared at him.
“And then he died.”
Jonathan nodded.
“But there's something else.”
“What?”
“Your father didn't die at home.”
Catherine looked at him sharply.
“What?”
“The official report said he collapsed in his study.”
“Yes.”
“That wasn't true.”
“Where did he actually die?”
Jonathan looked at her.
“At the private clinic your mother used.”
Catherine felt the blood drain from her face.
“The clinic?”
“Your father went there after complaining of severe stomach pain.”
“And the poisoning?”
“Confirmed by the original lab report.”
Catherine swallowed.
“Who was the doctor?”
Jonathan handed her another paper.
She read the name.
Dr. Adrian Cole.
Her mother had used him for years.
Catherine stared at the page.
“Where is he now?”
“Dead.”
“When?”
“Two years after your father's death.”
“How?”
“Car accident.”
Catherine looked out the window.
Too many deaths.
Too many coincidences.
“There's more,” Jonathan said.
She turned.
“Your father left a recording.”
Catherine's heart stopped.
“A recording?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
Jonathan pointed toward the metal box.
“That is why they want it.”
Catherine placed the box on her lap.
“How do I open it?”
Jonathan smiled faintly.
“You need your father's fingerprint.”
“What?”
“He designed it that way.”
Catherine stared at the box.
“But my father is dead.”
Jonathan reached into his pocket.
He pulled out a small glass vial.
Inside was a fingerprint impression.
Catherine stared at him.
“How did you get that?”
“Your father prepared it himself.”
She placed the impression against the sensor.
A green light appeared.
The box opened.
Inside was a small digital recorder.
And one envelope.
Catherine picked up the recorder.
A single file appeared on the screen.
PLAY ME AFTER THEY FIND YOU.
Her heart pounded.
She pressed play.
Static filled the car.
Then her father's voice.
“Catherine…”
She stopped breathing.
His voice was weak.
Tired.
But unmistakably his.
“If you're hearing this, I failed to protect you.”
Catherine's eyes filled with tears.
Her father continued.
“There's one person I trusted until the very end.”
A pause.
Then he said a name.
Catherine dropped the recorder.
Because the name belonged to someone she had never suspected.
Someone who had been beside her every day.
Her mother wasn't the person who ordered his death.
Her attorney wasn't either.
The person her father named was—
Mark.
Catherine's husband.
