Chapter 7: The Last Page My Mother Hid
“My father wasn't a saint,” I said, staring at Jessica.
“But I'm not going to believe he's a criminal because you waved an old piece of paper in my face.””
Jessica's attorney shifted his briefcase from one hand to the other.
“Mr. Ellis, I strongly recommend that you refrain from making accusations until you've reviewed the relevant documents.””
I almost laughed.
“That's excellent advice. Perhaps you should give it to your client.””
Jessica flinched.
Behind me, my mother had gone deathly pale. She was staring at the document in Jessica's hand as if she'd seen a ghost.
“Where did you get that?”” Margaret whispered.
Jessica looked at her.
“From my grandfather's private archive.””
“Arthur kept that?””
“He kept everything.””
My mother shook her head.
“He told me those records had been destroyed.””
Jessica's expression hardened.
“Apparently, he lied to you.””
I watched them exchange glances, and a terrible suspicion settled over me.
My mother knew what was on that page.
Maybe not every detail, but enough to be afraid.
I turned toward her.
“Mom, what happened the night Dad died?””
She looked at me, her eyes glistening.
“Daniel, please. You need to understand that I was trying to protect you.””
“From what? The truth?””
“From the people who took your father away.””
Jessica let out a sharp breath.
“Then tell him who was in the car with Thomas that night.””
My mother's face crumpled.
The corridor seemed to grow colder.
I looked between them.
“What car?””
Jessica held up the document.
“The original report says your father wasn't alone when his car left the road. Someone was in the passenger seat. That person's statement was removed from the final investigation file.””
“Who?””
She didn't answer.
“Jessica, who was in the car?””
She looked at my mother.
“Ask Margaret.””
I turned toward Mom.
She gripped the strap of her purse with both hands.
For several seconds, she said nothing.
Then she whispered, “I was.””
The words struck me like a physical blow.
I stepped backward.
“You were in Dad's car that night?””
She nodded, tears running down her cheeks.
“You told me he was driving home alone.””
“I know.””
“You told me the police identified his body at the hospital.””
“I know, Daniel.””
“Then why would you lie to me?””
Her mouth trembled.
“Because I promised your father that I would keep you safe.””
I felt suddenly furious.
“You've spent thirty years making me believe I understood how he died. Every birthday, every Christmas, every time I missed him, I thought I knew what happened.””
Mom reached for my hand.
“I wanted you to have a normal life.””
I pulled away.
“A normal life built on lies?””
She recoiled.
Jessica watched us with an expression that was almost satisfied.
I turned toward her.
“Don't look so pleased. You're not exactly innocent in this.””
Her smile vanished.
I held out my hand.
“Give me the document.””
Her attorney immediately stepped between us.
“The document is evidence in a pending matter.””
“Then let me read it.””
Jessica hesitated before handing it to her lawyer, who reluctantly allowed me to examine a photocopy.
The page contained a list of financial transfers, followed by two signatures: Thomas Ellis and Arthur Whitmore.
Below them was a handwritten note.
Passenger confirms the funds were transferred under instruction from the beneficiary.
I stared at the sentence.
“Who was the beneficiary?””
Jessica answered quickly.
“My grandfather.””
My mother shook her head.
“No.””
Everyone turned toward her.
She took a breath.
“Your father never agreed to help Arthur steal from anyone. He discovered the transfers and went to confront him. I went with him because I was afraid he'd do something reckless.””
“Then why does this say he authorized the transfers?”” I demanded.
Mom looked at the document.
“Because he signed a different agreement. It was a legitimate investment contract. Arthur used the signature page to make it look like Thomas had approved the payments.””
Jessica's attorney frowned.
“That is a serious allegation.””
“It's the truth,” Mom replied.
“Can you prove it?””
She lowered her eyes.
“Not without the original ledger.””
Jessica's expression changed.
I noticed immediately.
“What ledger?””
She looked away.
My mother's voice became firmer.
“Your grandfather kept a handwritten ledger showing where every dollar went. Thomas found it shortly before his death.””
I turned toward Jessica.
“You knew about this ledger?””
She swallowed.
“I knew my grandfather kept financial records.””
“Where are they?””
“I don't know.””
“Stop lying to me.””
Her eyes flashed.
“You don't get to lecture me about lying, Daniel! Your entire family has been hiding things from me!””
I stared at her.
“You crushed my mother's gift. You forged my signature. You tried to take property that wasn't yours. And now you want to pretend you're the victim?””
Her attorney touched her arm.
“Jessica, we should leave.””
She ignored him.
“There is one thing you need to understand,” she said.
“If that ledger still exists, it could destroy my family.””
“Your family destroyed mine first.””
She shook her head.
“No. Your father did something that forced my grandfather to act.””
Before I could respond, Harold hurried into the corridor carrying a small cardboard box.
“Mr. Ellis,” he said, breathless, “I found something in the back of the unit. It was hidden beneath the bottom drawer.””
He placed the box on a nearby table.
Inside was a black notebook secured with a leather strap.
My mother covered her mouth.
“Thomas's ledger.””
I reached for it.
Jessica lunged forward.
“Don't open that!””
Her attorney caught her arm, but she struggled against him.
“Daniel, please! You don't know what you're doing!””
I undid the strap.
The first page contained my father's handwriting.
The second listed dates, bank accounts, and amounts.
The third contained a name that made my blood run cold.
*Richard Whitmore.*
Beside it was a transfer of $250,000, dated three days before my father's death.
But it wasn't the amount that frightened me.
It was the note written underneath.
Payment approved by passenger. Final arrangement confirmed.
I looked at my mother.
She was crying silently.
“Mom,” I whispered, “what did you agree to?””
She reached for the notebook, but I pulled it closer.
And then, from the bottom of the box, a folded letter slipped onto the table.
It was addressed to me.
Not Margaret.
Not Richard.
May you like
Me.
And the date written on the envelope was the day after my twelfth birthday.
