Chương 8
Samuel looked at me.
“Because he knew you.”
I frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“He knew you would confront Julian before there was enough evidence.”
I looked away.
Because he was right.
If Dad had shown me those documents months ago, I would have called Julian.
I would have demanded answers.
I would have believed anger could force honesty.
And Julian would have destroyed the evidence.
Samuel tapped the notebook lightly.
“Your father was patient.”
“He was dying.”
“Yes.”
The word sat heavily.
“And he still chose patience.”
I looked at the pages.
The realization hurt.
My father had spent his final months preparing for a battle he knew he might not live to finish.
And I had been worried about whether he was comfortable.
Whether he was eating.
Whether he was afraid.
I had not known he was trying to protect me from the truth.
Samuel turned another page.
Then stopped.
“What?”
He did not answer.
He rotated the notebook toward me.
There was a name written at the bottom.
A name I knew.
A name I had not expected.
My stomach dropped.
Because suddenly Julian’s betrayal was no longer the only thing waiting for us.
The person Dad had written about was someone who had been sitting beside us at family dinners for years.
The person Dad had written about was someone who had been sitting beside us at family dinners for years.
My eyes stayed on the name.
Raymond.
Uncle Raymond.
For several seconds, my brain refused to connect the letters to the person.
Uncle Raymond was the man who brought soup when Dad was sick.
The man who stood beside me at the funeral.
The man who had told everyone my father would never choose me over Julian.
I looked at Samuel.
“No.”
It came out quietly.
Not disbelief exactly.
More like a refusal.
Samuel did not react.
“I understand why that is difficult to accept.”
“You think?”
His expression softened slightly.
“Elena.”
“No.”
I picked up the notebook.
“Raymond and Dad were friends for forty years.”
“Yes.”
“They worked together.”
“Yes.”
“He was like family.”
Samuel nodded.
“Sometimes that makes these situations harder.”
I hated that sentence.
Not because it was wrong.
Because it sounded like something people said after the damage was already done.
I flipped through the pages again.
Maybe I had missed something.
Maybe there was another Raymond.
A different person.
A coincidence.
Anything.
But Dad had written the name clearly.
Raymond Ellis.
Beside it were dates.
Meetings.
Amounts.
And one sentence.
“Trusted him longer than I should have.”
I sat back.
The room felt too quiet.
“How long did you know?”
Samuel looked confused.
“About Raymond?”
“No.”
I pointed at the notebook.
“How long did you know Dad was investigating people?”
Samuel looked down.
“Your father told me about some concerns.”
“Some concerns?”
He paused.
“He did not have complete proof.”
“So you knew.”
“I knew he was worried.”
“And nobody told me.”
Samuel leaned back.
“Your father specifically asked me not to.”
That hurt more than I expected.
Even though I understood why.
Even though I knew Dad had been trying to protect me.
It still felt like another door closing.
Everyone had known something.
Everyone had been carrying pieces of my father’s final months.
Everyone except me.
“I was there every day,” I said.
My voice became quieter.
“I sat with him when he couldn’t sleep.”
Samuel did not interrupt.
“I helped him eat.”
I looked at the notebook.
“I was the one who held his hand when he was scared.”
My throat tightened.
“And he still kept this from me.”
Samuel’s face changed.
Not with pity.
With understanding.
“Because you were the person he trusted most.”
I looked at him.
“That doesn’t feel like trust.”
“It was.”
“How?”
“Because he knew you would have chosen your heart before your judgment.”
I looked away.
That was the kind of thing Dad would have said.
And I hated that Samuel knew him well enough to say it.
I left the office with copies of the relevant pages and a promise that Samuel would begin reviewing everything immediately.
The drive home felt longer than usual.
The city looked exactly the same.
People walked dogs.
Someone carried groceries across a parking lot.
A couple argued quietly outside a coffee shop.
Everyone was living their ordinary lives.
Meanwhile, mine had become a puzzle made of missing pieces.
When I arrived at Dad’s house, Julian’s car was parked outside.
I almost turned around.
Almost.
Then I remembered something.
Running away had never solved anything.
I walked inside.
He was in the kitchen.
Not the study.
Not the rooms where the evidence had been found.
The kitchen.
The place where Dad used to make breakfast on Sundays.
Julian stood near the counter holding a cup of coffee.
He looked like he had not slept.
“You talked to Samuel.”
It was not a question.
“Yes.”
His eyes moved toward the folder in my hand.
“What did you find?”
I studied him.
A few days ago, I would have searched for the right way to say it.
I would have softened it.
Not anymore.
“Dad suspected Raymond.”
Julian froze.
The coffee cup stopped halfway to his mouth.
“What?”
I watched him carefully.
“You heard me.”
He put the cup down.
“Raymond?”
“Yes.”
A strange expression crossed his face.
Not surprise.
Not exactly.
Something closer to fear.
“You’re sure?”
The question bothered me.
“Why?”
He looked away.
“Elena.”
“No.”
I stepped closer.
“Why did you react like that?”
He rubbed his face.
“I don’t know.”
“That’s not true.”
He was quiet.
That was unusual.
Julian always had an answer.
Even when the answer was terrible.
Especially then.
Finally, he sat down.
“I thought it was just me.”
The words made me stop.
“What does that mean?”
He looked at the table.
“I thought Dad hated me.”
My anger shifted.
Not disappeared.
Shifted.
“I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
May you like
His voice was low.
“He looked at me differently.”
