Chapter 6: The Secret Derek Never Found
Paul Whitmore was younger than I'd expected.
Mid-forties, quiet, with the unhurried manner of someone who has seen enough that very little surprises him anymore.
He didn't ask questions when I got in the car.
He pulled away from the curb and drove.
After two blocks, he said, "Attorney first or parents first?"
"Attorney," I said.
"Then I'll call my parents from there."
He nodded.
I sat with the backpack in my lap and watched the neighborhood slide past.
The houses were large and well-kept.
The kind of street where people waved to each other and nobody ever imagined anything was wrong behind the doors.
"The third message," I said.
"The one you sent this morning.
You said it was all documented."
"It is."
"How complete is the file?"
"Complete enough." He glanced in the rearview mirror, a habit.
"Fourteen months of messages between Derek and his mother.
Six phone calls, four of them recorded.
Three financial documents showing the debt Derek was carrying before the engagement.
And one additional item I found last week that I haven't sent to your attorney yet."
I looked at him.
"What item?"
"Derek has done this before."
The car was quiet for a moment.
"What do you mean?"
"Seven years ago.
A woman named Sandra Okafor.
They dated for eight months.
She came from a family with significant assets — smaller than yours, but significant.
The relationship ended when her father hired an attorney and threatened to go to the police.
No charges were ever filed.
Sandra signed a non-disclosure agreement." He paused.
"Brenda negotiated that agreement herself."
I looked out the window.
"Sandra," I said.
"She's in Phoenix now.
Married, two kids.
I spoke to her three days ago.
She's willing to provide a statement."
"She broke the NDA?"
"NDAs don't cover crjminal conspiracy.
Her attorney confirmed that before she spoke to me."
I absorbed that for a moment.
"Derek doesn't know you found her," I said.
"No."
"And Brenda doesn't know either."
"No."
I thought about the letter in my backpack.
The careful handwriting.
The property addresses.
The name of my father's attorney.
Brenda had spent months researching my family with the thoroughness of someone who had done this kind of research before.
Because she had.
"What's the secret?" Paul asked.
I looked at him.
"You mentioned to Derek that you had a secret he didn't know about," he said.
"I heard it through the window.
You don't have to tell me.
But if it's relevant to the file—"
"It's relevant," I said.
He waited.
"My parents' assets are held in a trust," I said.
"A specific kind of trust.
My father restructured it fourteen months ago, when he first heard Derek's name.
The trust has a clause.
Any spouse I acquire is entitled to nothing from the trust in the event of a divorce unless the marriage has lasted a minimum of ten years and produced at least one child." I looked at Paul.
"Brenda's research identified the assets.
She never found the trust structure.
She didn't know the assets were unreachable."
Paul was quiet for a moment.
"So the entire plan," he said slowly, "was built on the assumption that the money was accessible."
"Yes."
"And it never was."
"Not to Derek.
Not to Brenda.
Not to anyone they could have sent."
"Your father set that up fourteen months ago."
"My father," I said, "has been watching people try to get close to our family's money since before I was born.
When Derek's name came up, he made some calls.
He didn't like what he heard." I looked at my hands.
"He didn't tell me.
He didn't want to influence my decision.
He just made sure that if I was wrong about Derek, the damage would be contained."
Paul exhaled slowly through his nose.
"Your father sounds like a careful man."
"He is."
"Does Derek know any of this?"
"He's about to."
Paul pulled into the parking structure beside my attorney's building.
He cut the engine and sat for a moment.
"For what it's worth," he said, "Gerald made the right call hiring me."
"I know," I said.
"I'll make sure he knows that too."
I got out of the car.
My phone buzzed.
Derek.
Calling, not texting.
I let it ring.
Then another buzz.
A text from an unknown number.
*This is Sandra.
Paul gave me your number.
Call me when you're ready.
You're not the first.
But you can be the last.*
May you like
I stood in the parking structure with the backpack on my shoulder and the morning light coming in at the far end, and I read that message three times.
Then I saved Sandra's number, put my phone in my pocket, and walked toward the elevator.
