Chương 3
“That is a very specific way to avoid saying something.”
She looked at him.
“Dad was good at making things complicated.”
Daniel wanted to argue.
Then he remembered the filing cabinets.
The hidden folders.
The locked drawers.
His father had always believed privacy was a form of responsibility.
Sometimes Daniel wondered if it was just a nicer word for control.
“What happened after he called you?”
Emily reached for the notebook.
“I told him I didn’t remember the account.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
The answer came quickly.
Daniel noticed.
“You did.”
“I remembered seeing it.”
“Then why lie?”
Emily looked at him.
“Because Dad sounded scared.”
The word changed the room.
Daniel had spent his whole life thinking his father was incapable of fear.
Anger, yes.
Frustration, definitely.
Disappointment, constantly.
But fear?
No.
“When did you hear him scared?”
Emily swallowed.
“Never.”
A car door closed outside.
Both of them looked toward the window.
A man in a gray jacket walked past the house carrying a folder.
He did not stop.
He did not look toward them.
But Daniel noticed Emily watching him until he disappeared.
“Who was that?”
“I don’t know.”
“You looked like you knew him.”
“I didn’t.”
“You hesitated.”
“So do you when you’re lying.”
The words came sharper than she intended.
They both felt it.
Their old pattern.
Attack.
Defend.
Repeat.
Emily looked away.
“Sorry.”
Daniel leaned back.
“No.”
She looked at him.
“No what?”
“Don’t apologize every time you say something uncomfortable.”
“That’s new.”
“What?”
“You defending discomfort.”
Daniel looked at the notebook.
“I’m not.”
But he knew he was.
Their father had spent years teaching them that uncomfortable things were dangerous.
Now every difficult conversation felt like standing too close to a fire.
Emily opened the notebook.
The first pages were filled with dates.
Not notes.
Not thoughts.
Dates.
Daniel moved closer.
The handwriting became smaller as the pages continued.
“He was tracking something,” Emily said.
Daniel looked at the columns.
Numbers.
Initials.
Short phrases.
Nothing that made immediate sense.
“He did this every day?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“Because the entries stop.”
Daniel followed the pages.
The last entry was dated four days before their father died.
There was only one sentence.
Need to talk to Daniel before Friday.
He felt the room shift.
“Me?”
Emily nodded.
“That’s why I didn’t show you.”
Daniel looked at her.
“That makes no sense.”
“It does.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
She closed the notebook.
“Dad wanted to tell you something.”
“And you decided I couldn’t handle it?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
Emily’s face tightened.
“I thought if he was wrong, you would spend the rest of your life believing he died trying to fix something that wasn’t broken.”
Daniel stared at her.
The answer was not satisfying.
But it was honest.
That was worse.
He stood and walked toward the sink.
The kitchen suddenly felt too small.
His father had built a business.
Raised three children.
Spent decades making decisions for everyone around him.
And somehow, even after death, he was still controlling the room.
Daniel opened the cabinet above the counter and took out two glasses.
Emily watched him.
“You still do that.”
“What?”
“Get water when you don’t know what to say.”
He stopped.
He had forgotten she knew that.
Their mother used to say the same thing.
Before she died.
Before the family changed.
Before every conversation became something they had to survive.
Daniel filled the glasses.
“I need to see the company.”
Emily looked surprised.
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“Daniel.”
“What?”
“You haven’t been there in six years.”
“I know.”
“You hate that place.”
“I know.”
“You think everyone there reminds you of him.”
Daniel placed a glass in front of her.
“I know.”
She stared at him.
“Then why go?”
Because the answer was too simple.
Because his father had written his name.
Because a dead man had left him a question.
Because some part of Daniel had spent years waiting for proof that he mattered to Thomas Mercer.
He hated admitting that.
“I don’t know.”
Emily nodded slowly.
“That sounds more like you.”
He almost smiled.
Almost.
The company building looked smaller than Daniel remembered.
That bothered him.
He had spent years imagining the place as this enormous machine that had swallowed his father’s life.
Now it was just a brick building beside a parking lot.
A delivery driver smoked near the loading entrance.
Two employees argued quietly beside a truck.
Someone had left a broken shopping cart near the dumpster.
Real life had continued without permission.
Daniel sat in his car for five minutes before walking inside.
The receptionist looked up.
Her expression changed immediately.
“Daniel?”
He recognized her after a moment.
“Linda.”
She stood.
“I didn’t know you were coming.”
“Neither did I.”
She gave a small uncomfortable laugh.
“That sounds like your dad.”
The comment landed harder than she expected.
She looked away.
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
But it wasn’t.
Not completely.
People always apologized when they mentioned his father.
As if Thomas Mercer had become something fragile after death.
Daniel walked past the front desk.
The hallway smelled like printer paper and old carpet.
Nothing had changed.
That was impossible.
Everything had changed.
At the end of the hallway, his father’s office door was closed.
Daniel reached for the handle.
A voice behind him stopped him.
“You shouldn’t be in there.”
Daniel turned.
Mark Ellison stood near the conference room.
The company’s operations manager.
He had worked with Daniel’s father for nineteen years.
Daniel remembered him as the man who always laughed too loudly at his father’s jokes.
Now he looked tired.
“What did you say?”
Mark walked closer.
“I said you shouldn’t be in there.”
“Why?”
Mark glanced around.
The hallway was empty.
“Because your father spent the last month of his life trying to find out who was stealing from this company.”
Daniel did not move.
“And you knew?”
Mark’s face changed.
Only slightly.
But enough.
“I knew he was worried.”
May you like
“That wasn’t my question.”
Mark looked at the office door.
