CHAPTER 8: MY MOTHER BURNED THE WRONG BOOK
The photograph had been taken behind an abandoned farmhouse owned by my grandfather.
I recognized the red barn immediately.
We drove there with two police vehicles behind us.
Smoke rose above the trees before we reached the property.
My mother stood beside the burning barrel.
Chloe was near the farmhouse, arguing with her.
“Stop!” I shouted.
Mom threw the journal into the flames.
I ran toward the barrel.
An officer grabbed my arm before I could reach inside.
Pages curled black beneath the fire.
Dad’s handwriting vanished in seconds.
My mother watched without emotion.
“You should have left this alone.”
I stared at her.
“You burned his last words.”
“I burned lies.”
“You stole from him.”
“He stole my life first.”
“What are you talking about?”
She looked toward Emily.
“This woman filled your head with stories.”
Emily walked closer.
“Tell her the truth, Margaret.”
“I protected her.”
“You protected yourself.”
My mother pointed at her.
“You have no idea what I sacrificed.”
Emily laughed.
“Daniel sacrificed his life. Thomas sacrificed his name. Hannah sacrificed twenty-eight years without even knowing it.”
My mother turned toward me.
“Thomas was not innocent.”
“No one said he was.”
“He used you to punish me.”
“He gave me the house because you were stealing.”
“He gave you the house because he knew I hated being powerless.”
“That isn’t better.”
The police separated us.
An officer examined the barrel.
Most of the journal was destroyed.
But I suddenly remembered the flash drive.
It was still inside my purse.
Dad had expected someone to destroy the physical evidence.
Perhaps the journal wasn’t the only copy.
I looked at Robert.
He understood immediately.
We returned to the house.
I inserted the flash drive into Dad’s old computer.
It required a password.
We tried my birthday.
Wrong.
Chloe’s birthday.
Wrong.
Dad’s anniversary.
Wrong.
Robert looked at the screen.
“What phrase did your father use often?”
I thought about childhood.
Dad used to take me fishing every summer.
Whenever I became frustrated, he would tap my shoulder and say:
Don’t fight the river. Read it.
I typed:
READTHERIVER
The drive opened.
Hundreds of files appeared.
Scanned journal pages.
Bank records.
Audio recordings.
Photographs.
And a folder labeled:
DANIEL CARTER — ORIGINAL CASE
My father had copied everything.
My mother had burned the wrong book.
Inside the folder were records connecting Vantage Holdings to shell companies, bribery payments and offshore accounts.
Daniel Carter had discovered enough evidence to destroy the company.
But there was one problem.
Most of the files were nearly thirty years old.
Robert leaned toward the screen.
“These alone may not be enough for prosecution.”
“What do we need?”
“A direct link to current activity.”
We opened another folder.
Recent bank transfers appeared.
Payments from a Vantage subsidiary to my mother.
Nearly four hundred thousand dollars over three years.
Chloe received smaller payments.
Jason received one transfer of fifty thousand.
My throat tightened.
“They were being paid.”
Robert nodded.
“For what?”
A video file sat at the bottom of the folder.
The date was six weeks before Dad died.
I pressed play.
Dad appeared in the storage unit.
He sat in front of the camera.
“If you are watching this, Margaret has likely destroyed the journal.”
I almost laughed.
Even dead, he knew her perfectly.
Dad held up a blue ledger.
“The records on this drive are copies.”
“The original Vantage ledger is hidden inside the house.”
I looked around the study.
Dad continued.
“Margaret searched for it repeatedly. She never found it because she never understood what mattered to me.”
He looked directly into the camera.
“But Hannah will.”
The video ended.
We searched the study for hours.
Behind paintings.
Inside drawers.
Under floorboards.
Nothing.
Then I saw the framed photograph beside Dad’s desk.
It showed the two of us fishing when I was nine.
I had caught nothing that day.
I became angry and threw my fishing pole into the grass.
Dad made me sit beside the river until I calmed down.
Don’t fight the river. Read it.
I picked up the frame.
Behind the photograph was a small handwritten note.
The first fish you ever caught.
I remembered it.
Dad had the fish mounted.
Mom hated it and forced him to move it into the attic.
Robert and I climbed the stairs.
The mounted trout hung beneath an old sheet.
I took it down.
The wooden backing felt heavier than it should.
Robert removed the screws.
Inside was a blue ledger.
Dad’s final evidence.
I opened it.
The first page contained names.
Executives.
Politicians.
Judges.
Payments.
Dates.
Then I reached the final page.
One name was circled in red.
MICHAEL REEVES — CFO, VANTAGE HOLDINGS
Jason’s father.
Beneath it, Dad had written:
He knows what happened to Daniel.
My phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
A man spoke calmly.
“Miss Brooks, my son tells me you found something that belongs to my company.”
I looked at the ledger.
“What do you want?”
“To prevent another unnecessary death.”
I gripped the phone.
“Did you kill my father?”
May you like
He chuckled softly.
“Which one?”
