Chapter 6: The Thing He Still Had
I showed Marcus the message before he reached his car.
He read it twice, handed my phone back, and said, "Don't reply."
"I wasn't going to."
"I mean don't reply at all.
Not tonight, not tomorrow morning, not until we know who sent it." He looked at the screen one more time.
"The Belize area code is consistent with a shell company we've been tracking.
But that number could belong to Daniel, to a third party, or to someone we haven't identified yet."
"Victoria?"
"No.
I verified her number months ago." He paused.
"There may be someone else involved.
Someone further back in the chain."
I looked at the message again.
*I still have something you want.*
"What could he possibly have that I want?"
Marcus was quiet for a moment.
"That's the question, isn't it." He took the phone gently from my hand and photographed the screen with his own.
"Get some sleep if you can.
I'll have someone trace the number overnight.
We meet at my office at nine."
He left.
I locked the front door, walked back through the foyer, and stood in the dining room doorway.
Fourteen place settings.
Cold food.
The chandelier still on, throwing light across my grandfather's table.
I turned the chandelier off.
Then I went to the study, sat down at my father's desk, and read the attached pages from his letter.
The investigator's report on Daniel was eleven pages.
I read every word.
The woman in Edinburgh — Claire Sutton — had been a property developer.
Comfortable money, not extraordinary wealth.
She had met Daniel at a charity function in London nine years ago.
They had dated for eight months before he proposed.
Fourteen months after the wedding, she discovered that two of her properties had been quietly remortgaged using documents she had not signed.
When she confronted Daniel, he had told her she was confused.
That she had signed them.
That she was remembering it wrong.
She had left him six weeks later.
Daniel had told everyone she had suffered a breakdown.
That the marriage had ended because she was unstable.
He had said it so consistently, to so many people, that by the time Claire tried to tell her own version, the story was already set.
I thought about every time Daniel had told me I was too sensitive.
Too suspicious.
Too inexperienced.
The same words.
The same method.
Different woman, different assets, identical script.
I set the report down.
My phone buzzed.
Not a text this time — a call.
Unknown number, different from the Belize one.
I answered.
"Emily Harper?" A woman's voice.
Older, Scottish accent, careful.
"Yes."
"My name is Claire Sutton." A pause.
"I hope it's not too late to call.
Marcus Reed gave me your number this evening.
He said tonight had happened, and he thought we should speak."
I sat back in my father's chair.
"I just finished reading about you," I said.
"I imagine that was strange."
"It was." I paused.
"Are you all right?
After giving the statement, I mean."
A short silence.
"I've been waiting four years to give it.
I'm better than I've been in a long time." Another pause.
"I wanted to call because there's something that isn't in the police file.
Something I didn't tell the investigators because I wasn't certain it was relevant.
But after what Marcus told me about tonight, I think it might be."
"Tell me."
"When I left Daniel, I took one thing I wasn't supposed to take.
I didn't know at the time that it mattered.
It was a USB drive I found in his desk — I took it because I thought it might prove the remortgage fraud, but when I looked at it, most of the files were encrypted and I couldn't open them." She paused.
"I kept it anyway.
For four years, I kept it."
"And now?"
"Now I think I know what's on it.
Because the man who sent you that message tonight — the Belize number — I've seen that number before.
It's in Daniel's contact list on the drive.
The name beside it is not a person." She stopped.
"It's a law firm.
A very specific kind of law firm that specializes in contesting inheritance claims."
The room went very still.
"He was planning to contest the trust," I said.
"Not just contest it.
Dissolve it.
There are draft documents on that drive, Emily.
Dated eight months ago.
They outline a legal strategy to have the Harper Family Trust declared invalid on the grounds of your father's mental competence at the time of the last restructure."
My father had restructured the trust fourteen months before he d*ed.
When he already knew about Daniel.
When he was already protecting me.
"They were going to claim he wasn't of sound mind," I said.
"Yes." Claire's voice was steady.
"And they had a psychiatrist lined up to testify.
Someone Daniel had been paying for two years."
I stared at the wall of my father's study.
"Claire," I said.
"Can you get that drive to Marcus tonight?"
"I already called him before I called you.
He's sending someone now." A pause.
"Emily — I'm sorry I didn't come forward sooner.
I was afraid no one would believe me.
He'd done such a thorough job of making me look unstable."
"I believe you," I said.
A long exhale on the other end of the line.
"Thank you," she said quietly.
"That's the first time anyone has said that to me in four years."
We stayed on the line for another moment without speaking.
Then my email notification sounded.
A new message, no subject line, sender address a string of random characters.
I opened it.
One image.
No text.
A photograph of a document I recognized — the trust restructure my father had signed fourteen months before his d*ath.
May you like
Except in this version, his signature had been crossed out.
And Daniel's had been written above it.
