Chương 7
“I swear,” he said.
“I opened the box, saw the notebook, and came to get you.”
I looked back down.
The notebook was thin.
Only about fifty pages.
But holding it felt heavier than the safe key around my neck.
“What is this?”
Mark rubbed his hands together.
“I don’t know.”
He looked around the garage.
“Your dad kept everything.”
That was true.
Dad saved instruction manuals for appliances he no longer owned.
He saved receipts from restaurants that closed years ago.
He saved birthday cards because he said handwriting was becoming rare.
But this was different.
This was not a memory.
This was evidence.
I turned the page.
The first entries were dates.
Several months apart.
Names followed.
Companies.
Amounts.
Some I recognized.
Some I did not.
Then I saw Julian’s name.
Not once.
Many times.
My chest tightened.
“Mark.”
He stepped closer.
“What?”
I handed him the notebook.
He read the page.
His expression changed.
“Is that…”
“Yes.”
He stopped talking.
People often imagined betrayal arrived with dramatic signs.
A confession.
A confrontation.
A villain revealing themselves.
But real betrayal was usually quieter.
It was seeing a name written somewhere it should never have been.
It was realizing the person you trusted had been living another version of their life.
I flipped through more pages.
There were notes beside some entries.
Questions.
Observations.
Things Dad had written when he was trying to understand what was happening.
One line caught my attention.
“Why would my son lie about needing money when he knows I would ask why?”
I closed my eyes.
That was Dad.
Even when he was being hurt, he was still trying to understand.
Not excuse.
Understand.
Another page.
“Serena knows more than she admits.”
I stopped.
Mark noticed.
“What?”
I showed him.
He frowned.
“Serena?”
I nodded.
“She left before she said anything.”
“Maybe she was scared.”
“Maybe.”
I did not know what I believed anymore.
That was the hardest part.
Before all this, the world had felt simple.
Dad was the good one.
Julian was the difficult one.
Serena was distant.
I was the responsible one.
Now every person had become more complicated.
Including me.
Because a small, uncomfortable thought had started growing inside me.
What else had I ignored because believing the easier version was less painful?
I kept reading.
The next pages were not about money.
They were about conversations.
Dates.
Locations.
Short notes.
“Julian says he has investors.”
“Julian says the business is growing.”
“Julian avoids showing paperwork.”
Then one sentence written darker than the others.
“Pride is making him dangerous.”
I sat down on the old wooden stool beside the workbench.
Dad had known.
Not everything.
Not at first.
But enough.
Enough to start looking.
Enough to protect himself.
Enough to create the safe.
Mark leaned against the wall.
“What are you going to do?”
The question annoyed me.
Not because of him.
Because everyone kept asking me that.
What are you going to do?
As if I had been preparing for this.
As if I wanted this responsibility.
“I don’t know.”
It was the first honest answer I had given all day.
Mark nodded.
“You don’t have to decide right now.”
I looked at him.
That was a surprisingly kind thing to say.
Most people wanted answers.
They wanted a position.
A side.
A judgment.
They wanted the story to have a clear ending.
But it did not.
Not yet.
I put the notebook in my bag.
“I need to show Samuel.”
Mark nodded.
Then he hesitated.
“Elena.”
I looked at him.
“I know this probably doesn’t matter right now.”
“Then why say it?”
He looked embarrassed.
“Because everyone keeps talking about Julian.”
I waited.
“But your dad was proud of you.”
The words caught me off guard.
I looked away.
Mark continued.
“He talked about you all the time.”
“That doesn’t make this easier.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
The sharpness in my voice surprised both of us.
Mark went quiet.
I took a breath.
“I’m sorry.”
He shook his head.
“You’re allowed.”
That almost made me cry.
Not because it was profound.
Because it was simple.
Someone finally gave me permission to not be composed.
I left the garage carrying the notebook.
On the drive to Samuel’s office, I kept hearing Dad’s voice.
Not from the recording.
From memory.
The ordinary moments.
The things that had nothing to do with money.
Him complaining about the neighbor’s lawn decorations.
Him pretending not to like my cooking and then asking for the recipe.
Him telling me I worked too much.
The strange thing about losing someone was that the big moments were not always what stayed.
Sometimes it was the smallest ones.
The things you never realized you were collecting.
Samuel’s office was quiet when I arrived.
He looked surprised to see me.
“Everything okay?”
I placed the notebook on his desk.
“No.”
He looked at it.
“What is this?”
“I found it in Dad’s garage.”
Samuel did not touch it immediately.
That told me something.
He was careful.
More careful than I had been.
“Did anyone else see it?”
“Mark saw the cover and one page.”
Samuel nodded.
“Good.”
“Good?”
“Yes.”
I frowned.
“Why?”
“Because if this contains financial information or evidence, we need to know who has accessed it.”
The practical way he spoke bothered me.
Not because he was wrong.
Because my life had become a series of things that needed to be documented.
Who saw what.
Who knew when.
Who touched what.
Samuel opened the notebook.
He read silently.
The longer he read, the more serious his expression became.
Finally, he looked up.
“Your father suspected this went beyond the withdrawals.”
“What does that mean?”
Samuel closed the notebook.
“It means Julian may not have been acting alone.”
I felt the same chill I had felt in the garage.
“Serena?”
“Possibly.”
“Who else?”
Samuel did not answer immediately.
That scared me more.
“Your father was investigating something,” he said.
“He did not tell me.”
May you like
“No.”
“Why?”
