PART 4 — THE MAN WHO KNEW HOW MY FATHER DIED
For several seconds after the call ended, I couldn't move.
My phone was still pressed against my ear.
I could hear my own breathing.
Fast.
Uneven.
Terrified.
Then I looked at Harold.
“My father was murdered.”
The words sounded impossible.
Harold's face had gone completely pale.
“What did he say?”
“He said Damian killed my father.”
Silence filled the room.
Harold slowly sat down.
“Samantha…”
“You knew something.”
His eyes met mine.
“No.”
“You hesitated.”
“Because I knew there were unanswered questions surrounding your father's death.”
“What questions?”
Harold rubbed his forehead.
“Your father was supposed to meet me the night before he died.”
I stared at him.
“You never told me that.”
“Because I didn't think it mattered.”
“Why didn't he show up?”
“I assumed he changed his mind.”
“And then?”
“He died the following morning.”
My stomach tightened.
“How?”
“Car accident.”
I remembered that day.
I was twenty-three.
My father had been driving home from a business meeting when his car supposedly lost control on a wet road.
The police called it an accident.
Everyone did.
Except my father had been an excellent driver.
He never drove recklessly.
He never used his phone behind the wheel.
And he always checked the weather before leaving.
I had accepted the official explanation because I had been devastated.
Now, for the first time, I wondered if I had been wrong.
“Where is the police report?”
Harold looked at me.
“I have a copy.”
“Get it.”
He immediately called his office.
Twenty minutes later, an assistant arrived with a sealed envelope.
I opened it.
The report was old.
Yellowed.
The photographs were difficult to look at.
But one detail caught my attention.
The brakes.
“Harold.”
“Yes?”
“Why does it say the brake system had been inspected?”
“Because the investigators believed the brakes failed.”
“No.”
I pointed at the report.
“Read this.”
He leaned closer.
The mechanic's statement was attached.
The brakes hadn't failed.
They had been deliberately disconnected.
My hands began shaking.
Someone had sabotaged my father's car.
And suddenly, the stranger's words didn't sound impossible anymore.
* * *
At noon, the mysterious caller contacted me again.
This time, he used a different number.
“Are you alone?”
“No.”
“Then listen carefully.”
I put the phone on speaker.
Harold motioned for everyone to remain silent.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Michael Reed.”
“Where did you know my father?”
“I worked for him.”
“What did you do?”
“I handled security.”
I looked at Harold.
Michael continued.
“Your father discovered something about Damian.”
“What?”
“A financial scheme.”
My heart sank.
“What kind?”
“Your father discovered money being moved through several companies.”
“Prescott Meridian?”
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
“So my father knew.”
“He knew Damian was stealing from you.”
“Why didn't he tell me?”
“Because he wanted proof first.”
My hands tightened around the phone.
“And then he died.”
“Yes.”
“Did you see Damian that night?”
“No.”
“But I saw someone else.”
“Who?”
“Chloe Danvers.”
My breath caught.
“Chloe?”
“She met your father two days before his death.”
“Why?”
“I don't know.”
“You must know something.”
“I only know what I saw.”
Michael's voice became quieter.
“Your father gave me an envelope before he died.”
“Where is it?”
“I hid it.”
“Where?”
“I've kept it for years.”
“Why didn't you give it to me?”
“Because Damian found me.”
I froze.
“What?”
“He threatened my family.”
My blood ran cold.
“He told me that if I ever contacted you, people would die.”
“Where are you now?”
There was a pause.
“Atlanta.”
“Give me an address.”
“I can't.”
“Michael—”
“You're not safe.”
I looked around the room.
“We're already dealing with that.”
He sighed.
“There's an old warehouse near the Chattahoochee River.”
He gave me an address.
“Come alone.”
“No.”
He hesitated.
“I'll bring Harold.”
“No lawyers.”
“I trust him.”
Another silence.
“Fine.”
Then Michael said something that made my blood run cold.
“Bring the ring your father gave you.”
I looked down at my hand.
The old signet ring.
I had worn it since I was twenty-four.
“How do you know I have it?”
“Because your father told me you would.”
The call ended.
* * *
Two hours later, Harold and I arrived at the warehouse.
It was abandoned.
Broken windows.
Rusting doors.
We stepped inside.
“Michael?”
No answer.
Then we heard footsteps.
A man appeared from the shadows.
He was older than I expected.
Gray hair.
Tired eyes.
A scar across his jaw.
“You look like him,” he said.
“Like my father?”
Michael nodded.
“Especially your eyes.”
I held up the ring.
His expression changed.
“He was right.”
“About what?”
“That you'd survive.”
My heart tightened.
“What happened to my father?”
Michael looked toward the warehouse door.
“Damian wasn't supposed to be there that night.”
“Who was?”
“Chloe.”
I felt sick.
“Why would Chloe meet my father?”
“Because your father knew she was involved.”
“In what?”
Michael reached inside his coat.
He pulled out a small black envelope.
“This.”
I reached for it.
Before I could open it, headlights suddenly appeared outside.
Michael's face changed.
“They found us.”
Harold stepped forward.
“Who?”
Michael whispered:
“Damian.”
A car stopped outside.
Then another.
Men stepped out.
My heart raced.
Michael grabbed my arm.
“There's a back exit.”
We ran.
Behind us, a door slammed open.
A voice shouted:
“Stop!”
We kept running.
We reached the back corridor just as the lights went out.
Then I heard a gunshot.
Harold pulled me down.
Michael disappeared into the darkness.
“Michael!” I whispered.
No answer.
Another gunshot echoed through the warehouse.
Then silence.
* * *
We escaped through a side door.
Outside, I immediately called the police.
But Michael was gone.
The envelope was still in my hand.
My fingers trembled as I opened it.
Inside was a single photograph.
My father.
Damian.
And Chloe.
Standing together.
Five years ago.
But that wasn't what frightened me.
On the back of the photograph, my father had written one sentence:
“If anything happens to me, never trust the woman standing beside Damian.”
I stared at Chloe's face.
Then I turned the photograph over.
There was something else inside the envelope.
A handwritten account number.
And beneath it:
$180,000,000 — FINAL TRANSFER.
The date was tomorrow.
My heart stopped.
Tomorrow wasn't just the deadline for Damian's financial scheme.
It was the day he planned to transfer everything.
And suddenly I understood.
He hadn't married Chloe because he loved her.
He had married her because tomorrow…
He planned to make her the legal owner of my stolen fortune.
I looked at Harold.
“We have less than twenty-four hours.”
He nodded.
“What do you want to do?”
I folded the photograph.
My fear was gone.
“Let him make the transfer.”
Harold stared at me.
“Why?”
“Because when he does…”
I looked toward the dark warehouse.
“We'll finally have the evidence we need to destroy both of them.”
But neither of us knew that someone had already sent Damian a message.
And the message contained a photograph of me leaving the warehouse alive.
Damian now knew I was investigating him.
And his next move would be far more dangerous than anything he had done before.
