Chapter 3 - THE LETTER INSIDE MY FATHER'S BENCH
I didn't sleep that night.
At six in the morning, I drove to the apartment I'd shared with Dad.
His things were mostly untouched.
I hadn't been ready.
Grief turns ordinary objects into traps.
His coffee mug.
His coat.
The reading glasses he always lost while they were sitting on top of his head.
And his piano bench.
I opened it.
Sheet music.
Tuning tools.
A metronome.
Nothing.
Then I remembered something Dominic had said.
The Carter turn.
Three notes.
A pause.
Three.
I examined the bottom of the bench.
Three brass screws on one side.
Three on the other.
Dad loved terrible puzzles.
I removed them.
A false panel lifted.
Inside was an envelope.
ELENA.
My hands shook.
I opened it.
Sweetheart,
If you're reading this, either I've finally become brave enough to tell you, or someone else has forced the truth into the room.
I sat on the floor.
Dad explained the fire.
Vincent Vale had discovered millions being diverted through construction contracts.
The suspected architect was Raymond.
But Raymond wasn't alone.
Someone inside Vincent's household provided schedules, access and security information.
Dad found the recording device.
After the fire, Vincent asked him to keep quiet until investigators could build a case.
Then Vincent died.
The investigation disappeared.
Dad received a threat.
A photograph of me leaving elementary school.
He ran.
Not from Chicago.
From the truth.
He changed our address.
Stopped servicing Vale properties.
And never spoke about it again.
Then came the sentence that frightened me most.
Raymond didn't kill Vincent.
At least, I don't believe he did.
Someone else benefited more.
Below it was a name.
Whitmore.
Caroline's family.
My mind raced.
Whitmore Development had become one of Chicago's largest real-estate firms after Vincent's death.
I called Dominic.
He arrived twenty minutes later.
I gave him the letter.
He read it twice.
“Whitmore.”
“Caroline's family.”
“Yes.”
“You were expected to marry her.”
“No.”
“Everyone at your party seemed to think so.”
“Everyone at my party also thought I'd marry whoever played a concerto.”
I looked at him.
“About that.”
“No.”
“No what?”
“I'm not marrying you because of a stupid joke.”
“Good.”
He looked surprised.
“You agree?”
“I don't want to marry you.”
“That was unnecessarily quick.”
Despite everything, I laughed.
He did too.
Then his eyes returned to the letter.
The humor disappeared.
“Caroline's father was my father's partner.”
“Graham Whitmore?”
“Yes.”
“Could he have killed him?”
“I don't know.”
“What happened after Vincent died?”
“Whitmore acquired three properties my father had refused to sell.”
There it was.
Benefit.
Dad's letter contained one more clue.
A number.
2147.
Dominic recognized it.
“A storage unit.”
“How do you know?”
“Vale properties used four-digit internal unit codes.”
“Where?”
He looked at the number again.
“Old South Harbor warehouse.”
The warehouse had been abandoned for eleven years.
We drove there.
Unit 2147 contained one object.
An upright piano.
Inside the piano was a ledger.
Dad had hidden evidence where he knew almost nobody would look.
Dominic opened it.
Payments.
Dates.
Initials.
Then his face changed.
“What?”
He pointed.
G.W.
Graham Whitmore.
R.V.
Raymond Vale.
Both men had received payments.
But a third set of initials appeared more often than either.
M.V.
Dominic went completely still.
“Who is M.V.?”
He didn't answer.
“Dominic?”
He looked at me.
May you like
“My mother.”
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