Chapter 5 - THE FATHER WE BURIED
My father died when I was twenty-two.
A heart attack.
That was what the doctors said.
He collapsed at work.
An ambulance took him to the hospital.
By the time my mother arrived, he was gone.
I remembered the funeral.
The flowers.
The black dresses.
The way Adrian held my hand while the priest spoke.
I remembered thinking that losing my father was the worst thing that could ever happen to me.
I was wrong.
But I had never questioned how he died.
Until now.
My mother stared at the photograph.
Her face had gone white.
“Where did Lily get this?”
I looked at her.
“You recognize the men?”
She nodded slowly.
“Your father knew Victor Sloane.”
My heart tightened.
“How?”
“He worked for him.”
I stared.
“What?”
My father had been an accountant.
Quiet.
Careful.
The kind of man who balanced his checkbook every Sunday and complained when grocery prices increased.
“He told us he worked for a transportation company.”
My mother looked down.
“He did.”
“Which one?”
She hesitated.
“Moretti Freight.”
The room went silent.
I stood.
“Adrian's family?”
My mother nodded.
I felt sick.
“Did Adrian know?”
“I don't know.”
“Mom.”
She looked up.
“I don't know, Evelyn.”
I paced the kitchen.
My father had worked for the Morettis.
Victor Sloane had known him.
And Lily had somehow discovered a photograph linking all three men.
“Why didn't you tell us?”
My mother's eyes filled.
“Your father asked me not to.”
I stopped.
“Why?”
“He said his work was complicated.”
I laughed bitterly.
“Complicated.”
She looked ashamed.
“He wanted to keep you girls away from it.”
I stared.
“And how did that work out?”
She began crying.
I immediately regretted the cruelty in my voice.
But I couldn't take it back.
That night, I called Adrian.
“Did you know my father worked for your family?”
Silence.
Then, “Yes.”
My chest tightened.
“How long?”
“Since before we met.”
I closed my eyes.
“You knew.”
“Yes.”
“And you never told me?”
“He asked me not to.”
I laughed.
“Of course he did.”
“Evelyn—”
“No. I'm tired of men deciding which truths women can handle.”
Adrian said nothing.
I continued.
“Did my father die of a heart attack?”
A long silence.
Then Adrian said, “That's what I was told.”
“Do you believe it?”
He hesitated.
“I did.”
“And now?”
His voice became quiet.
“Now I'm not sure.”
The next morning, I met with a retired detective named Harold Bennett.
He had investigated several cases involving the Moretti organization.
When I showed him the photograph, he frowned.
“Where did you get this?”
“From my sister.”
He studied it.
Then looked at me.
“Your father was involved in something very dangerous.”
My stomach tightened.
“What?”
Harold leaned back.
“Twelve years ago, Victor Sloane disappeared after a financial investigation began. Several accountants were questioned.”
I swallowed.
“My father?”
Harold nodded.
“He was scheduled to testify.”
My heart stopped.
“Against whom?”
Harold looked toward the window.
Then said, “The Moretti family.”
I stared.
“And then he died?”
May you like
Harold nodded slowly.
“Three weeks before his testimony.”
