Chương 8
Just enough to prove the room had been untouched.
The office was smaller than I expected.
A desk.
Two chairs.
A bookshelf.
A filing cabinet.
A coffee machine in the corner.
A plant beside the window that had long since died.
The strangest part was how normal it looked.
I had expected some dramatic hidden room.
Some obvious sign that my father had been living another life.
Instead, I saw the place where a man worked.
My father’s coat still hung behind the door.
I stopped.
My mother noticed.
“He left it there.”
I stepped closer.
I touched the sleeve.
The fabric was rough.
Real.
For a second, I could smell his aftershave.
A memory came without warning.
Me sitting in this office when I was fourteen.
Bored.
Waiting for him to finish a meeting.
Complaining that there was nothing to do.
He gave me a stack of old documents and told me to organize them by color.
I told him that was not a real system.
He said, “Exactly.”
I smiled before I could stop myself.
“What?”
Victoria’s voice came from behind me.
I shook my head.
“Nothing.”
But it wasn’t nothing.
It was one of the few memories I had of this place.
A place everyone else had known existed.
I walked farther inside.
The desk was covered with papers.
Not messy.
Organized.
My father’s kind of organized.
Three folders sat on the corner.
One was labeled Foundation.
One was labeled Personal.
One had no label.
I looked at my mother.
“Did you go through these?”
“No.”
“Not once?”
She shook her head.
“I couldn’t.”
Victoria looked at her.
“You couldn’t or you didn’t want to?”
My mother looked hurt.
But she did not argue.
“I don’t know anymore.”
That answer made the room feel heavier.
I opened the Foundation folder.
Inside were spreadsheets.
Bank statements.
Emails printed on paper.
Handwritten notes.
I read the first page.
Then the second.
Then I stopped.
“What?”
Victoria stepped closer.
I handed her the paper.
Her face changed.
“What is it?”
I looked at the document again.
A series of transactions.
Several payments.
Same amounts.
Different accounts.
Different dates.
But one name appeared repeatedly.
“Holloway Group.”
Nobody spoke.
Victoria looked at me.
Then at the paper.
Then at my mother.
“No.”
Her voice was barely audible.
I looked at her.
“You know that name.”
“My husband’s company.”
The words sat there.
Impossible.
But not random.
Not anymore.
“Richard?”
Victoria shook her head immediately.
“No.”
Too fast.
I watched her face.
The same face that had lied confidently for years.
Now it looked frightened.
“He wouldn’t.”
My mother sat down.
“I don’t know.”
Victoria turned toward her.
“You knew?”
“No.”
“You knew his company was involved?”
“I knew your father had concerns.”
“And you let me marry him?”
The question came out broken.
My mother stared at her daughter.
“I didn’t know.”
Victoria laughed once.
A painful sound.
“You keep saying that.”
“I didn’t know enough.”
“Apparently nobody knew enough except Dad.”
The room went quiet.
I looked through the documents again.
My father had not written accusations.
He had written questions.
That mattered.
He had been investigating.
Not attacking.
I found another page.
A note in his handwriting.
Check ownership structure.
Follow the secondary accounts.
Do not assume the obvious answer.
I read it twice.
My father had suspected Richard.
But suspicion was not proof.
And that meant something important.
My father had been careful.
He had not wanted revenge.
He wanted the truth.
“Where is the rest?” I asked.
My mother looked at me.
“What?”
“This isn’t everything.”
I pointed at the folder.
“He wouldn’t stop here.”
Victoria looked around the room.
“He had another place.”
I turned.
“What?”
She looked embarrassed.
“I don’t know why I know that.”
“Victoria.”
She closed her eyes.
“Because Richard mentioned it once.”
My mother stood.
“When?”
“Before the sale.”
“What did he say?”
Victoria looked uncomfortable.
“He said your father had backup files somewhere.”
My stomach tightened.
“Backup files?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
She shook her head.
“I don’t know.”
I looked at the room again.
At the desk.
The shelves.
The papers.
The things everyone had missed because they were looking for the wrong thing.
My father had always believed people searched too quickly.
They looked where they expected answers to be.
Not where answers actually lived.
I walked toward the bookshelf.
The books were ordinary.
Accounting manuals.
Business books.
Old novels.
I ran my fingers along the edges.
Nothing.
Then I noticed one book slightly pushed back.
A small thing.
Almost nothing.
I pulled it out.
Behind it was a narrow space.
Inside was a small metal box.
Nobody moved.
My mother covered her mouth.
Victoria whispered my father’s name.
I lifted the box out carefully.
It was heavier than it looked.
On the top was a single word written in black ink.
Maya.
I looked at my mother.
I looked at Victoria.
Then I opened it.
Inside was a photograph.
A recording device.
And a note.
The note had only one sentence.
If they found the money, they already know enough.
If they found this, they know too much.
I stared at the note until the words stopped looking like words.
My father’s handwriting had always been steady.
Even when he was sick, even when his hands shook from medication, his letters remained careful.
This note was different.
The pressure of the pen was heavier.
The strokes were sharper.
He had not written it calmly.
He had written it because he was afraid.
My mother stepped closer.
“What does it say?”
I handed her the note.
She read it once.
Then again.
Her face changed.
“What?”
Victoria moved toward her.
My mother looked up.
“It’s about Richard.”
The room became silent.
Victoria shook her head immediately.
“No.”
Nobody had accused him yet.
Nobody had even said his name beyond what was already written on the papers.
May you like
But she reacted like the verdict had already been announced.
That hurt me more than I expected.
