Chương 7
Because it was not the answer I expected.
I looked at him carefully.
“What does that mean?”
He leaned back.
“It means people make choices when they are afraid.”
I studied his face.
My father had always presented himself as someone who never feared anything.
Fear was for people who lost.
Fear was for people who needed excuses.
But now I wondered how much of that confidence had been performance.
“What were you afraid of?”
He looked away.
That was enough of an answer.
The door opened again before he could speak.
Daniel stood there holding a tablet.
“I’m sorry.”
He looked between us.
“I didn’t realize you were still meeting.”
My father straightened.
“What is it?”
Daniel hesitated.
“There are reporters downstairs.”
My stomach tightened.
My father’s expression changed instantly.
Not panic.
Calculation.
“What reporters?”
“Two from the business section and someone from a local news station.”
“Why?”
Daniel looked uncomfortable.
“I think they’re asking about the dinner.”
The room went quiet.
My father reached for his phone.
I watched him scroll through notifications.
For the first time, I saw how quickly his world could move without him.
Messages.
Emails.
Alerts.
A constant stream of people demanding explanations.
“What happened?” I asked.
He did not answer.
He did not need to.
I saw his face.
The story had escaped.
Not the truth.
Not yet.
Just enough.
The photograph.
The awkward dinner.
The tension.
Public curiosity was already doing what it always did.
Filling empty spaces with whatever people could imagine.
“Did you leak something?” he asked.
I stared at him.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
The accusation was immediate.
Automatic.
A reflex.
I should have expected it.
“You think I called reporters?”
“I think someone wanted this attention.”
I laughed quietly.
“Of course you do.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means even now, your first instinct is to find someone to blame.”
His face hardened.
“And your first instinct is to believe you’re innocent.”
The words hurt because there was a piece of truth inside them.
I was not perfect.
I had been angry.
I had wanted him to hurt.
I had imagined the moment he opened that envelope.
I had imagined his face changing.
That was not something I was proud of.
“I never said I was innocent,” I replied.
The answer surprised him.
I think he expected me to fight.
Instead, I continued.
“I said I was tired.”
Something in his expression shifted.
Not forgiveness.
Not understanding.
Something smaller.
Recognition.
Maybe for the first time, he saw that this was not about winning.
It was about exhaustion.
“I need to know what happened to my mother,” I said.
His eyes moved to the window.
“She was stubborn.”
The words made my chest tighten.
“Don’t.”
He looked back.
“I’m not insulting her.”
“You always do.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
I stepped closer.
“You say she was emotional.”
“You say she was stressed.”
“You say she was difficult.”
My voice lowered.
“But every time you describe her, you make her the problem.”
He looked down.
“She was right about some things.”
The admission was so quiet I almost missed it.
“What things?”
He did not answer immediately.
Instead, he walked to a cabinet near the wall.
He opened it.
Inside were dozens of files.
Not digital.
Paper.
My father was a person who trusted systems.
Passwords.
Security.
Control.
But there were still secrets stored in physical form.
He removed one folder.
“This was never supposed to leave my office.”
He placed it on the desk.
I looked at the label.
Eleanor Prescott.
My mother’s name.
Seeing it in his handwriting felt strangely intimate.
“Why do you have this?”
“Because I kept everything.”
“Why?”
He looked at the folder.
“Because throwing it away felt like admitting she was gone.”
I did not expect that.
A softer answer would have been easier to reject.
Cruel people were simple.
Complicated people were harder.
My father opened the folder.
Inside were printed emails.
Photographs.
Handwritten notes.
I recognized my mother’s handwriting immediately.
My fingers touched the edge of the paper.
“You kept these?”
“Yes.”
“Then why didn’t you show me?”
He looked at me.
“Because I was ashamed.”
The honesty made me uncomfortable.
I did not want him to have a reason.
I wanted him to have only guilt.
But people were rarely that convenient.
“What were you ashamed of?”
His eyes stayed on mine.
“I ignored her.”
The room became silent.
Not dramatic silence.
The kind that happens when someone finally says something they have avoided for years.
“I thought she was wrong,” he continued.
His voice became quieter.
“I thought she was looking for problems because she was scared.”
I looked at the documents.
“And she wasn’t.”
“No.”
He sat down.
“She found something.”
“What?”
He rubbed his hands together.
A nervous habit I had never seen before.
“Money was being moved through accounts connected to the company.”
“By Helena?”
He did not answer.
That was an answer.
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
I stared at him.
“You don’t know?”
“No.”
The frustration showed on his face.
“You think having power means knowing everything.”
He looked tired.
“It doesn’t.”
That sentence stayed with me.
Because it sounded like something my father would never admit.
“I trusted the wrong people,” he said.
I looked at him.
“Who?”
He hesitated.
Then he said a name I recognized.
“Marcus.”
I froze.
My brother.
The person who had applauded when my father called me a loser.
The person who had spent his life being the perfect Prescott child.
“No.”
My father closed his eyes briefly.
“I wish I could tell you no.”
I stepped back.
My mind immediately searched through memories.
Marcus helping my father at business events.
Marcus defending the company.
Marcus laughing when I talked about teaching.
Everything rearranged itself.
Not into a clear picture.
Into questions.
“What did he do?”
My father looked at the folder.
“That is what I’m trying to find out.”
“You don’t know?”
May you like
“No.”
For the first time, I believed him.
