Chapter 7: The Safe Was Empty, but the Truth Was Still Inside
The alarm screamed through the estate as my father reached his study.
The door stood open.
A desk lamp lay shattered on the carpet. Papers had been dragged from the filing cabinets, and the framed photograph of my mother that Dad kept beside his computer had been knocked facedown.
The safe behind the oil painting was open.
Its steel door hung wide.
Dad stopped in the doorway.
“No,” he whispered.
He crossed the room and dropped to his knees in front of it. Inside, the shelves were empty except for a few envelopes and a velvet box containing his old cuff links.
He pulled out the envelopes one by one, searching as if the missing documents might somehow be hiding underneath them.
“Where is it?”” he demanded.
Martin arrived behind us.
“Richard, what was in there?””
“The original authorization. The bank records. A copy of Elaine's revised estate plan.””
He looked up at Martin.
“And the original documents I signed after she died.””
Martin's face tightened.
“You said those were destroyed.””
“I thought they were.””
I stared at the open safe.
“Dad, why would someone steal documents that could prove you didn't authorize those transfers?””
“Because they might prove something else.””
He stood and turned toward us.
“If someone forged my signature, the original documents could establish which signatures were genuine. They could show who had access to my accounts and who benefited from the transfers.””
“Then the person who stole them wants to hide who really took the money,” I said.
“Possibly.””
Dad looked at the broken lamp.
“Or they want to make it look as though I took it.””
A cold sensation crawled up my back.
The money. The mysterious company. The forged signature. My mother's warning.
Someone wasn't merely trying to escape accountability.
Someone was constructing a story in which my father could become the criminal.
A police officer entered with another member of the security team.
“Mr. Hayes, we need everyone to remain outside this room while we document the scene.””
Dad stepped away from the safe.
“Have you checked the cameras?””
“Yes, sir. The study camera stopped transmitting at 4:38 p.m.””
“That's impossible. The system has backup power.””
“The power wasn't interrupted. The camera was disabled manually.””
Martin frowned.
“Who has administrative access?””
The officer consulted his tablet.
“Mr. Hayes, Mrs. Hayes, the estate manager, and the head of security.””
Dad's expression hardened.
“Bring the head of security here.””
“He's currently checking the outer grounds.””
“Then call him.””
The officer stepped into the corridor.
Dad turned toward me.
“James, stay with Martin.””
“No.””
“Son—”
“Every time you tell me to stay somewhere, somebody steals something else.””
He opened his mouth, then closed it.
“I don't want you hurt.””
“Neither do I.””
I pointed toward the safe.
“Mom hid something because she knew somebody was dangerous. That person knew about the desk, knew about the safe, and knew exactly when to move. If we keep treating me like a child who needs to be sent away, we'll never understand how they know everything we're doing.””
Dad looked at me for a long moment.
Then he nodded.
“All right. But you stay beside Martin.””
I agreed.
We returned to the sitting room, where Victoria was waiting under the watch of a police officer.
Her face had become almost colorless.
When she saw Dad, she rose.
“Did they find the authorization?””
“No.””
She closed her eyes.
For one second, she looked genuinely devastated.
Then she asked, “Was anything else taken?””
Dad studied her.
“Why?””
“Because Daniel wasn't supposed to take everything.””
Martin moved closer.
“What does that mean?””
Victoria looked at the officer.
“I need to speak to my lawyer.””
Dad struck the table with his palm.
“Enough! You knew about the safe, you knew about Daniel, and you knew someone was trying to hide these documents. You don't get to keep dropping pieces of the truth whenever you feel like it!””
Victoria recoiled.
“I told you what I know!””
“Then tell us what you mean by 'everything.''”
She looked at me.
For the first time, there was no contempt in her expression. Only fear.
“Your mother left a second set of records,” she said.
Martin's head lifted.
“Where?””
“I don't know.””
“Who does?””
Victoria swallowed.
“Elaine told me she had made copies. She said the originals were too dangerous to keep in one place.””
Dad's voice dropped.
“Why didn't you tell us this earlier?””
“Because I thought Daniel had already found them.””
“Then why did he break into the storage room?””
“To retrieve the ledger.””
“And why did he break into my study?””
Victoria hesitated.
“Because the ledger isn't the only thing that could expose him.””
Martin leaned forward.
“What else is there?””
Victoria rubbed her trembling hands together.
“An audio recording.””
My heart seemed to stop.
“Of what?””
“Of a conversation between Daniel and the person who authorized the transfers.””
Dad stared at her.
“Who was on that recording?””
“I never heard it.””
“Victoria!””
“I swear to you, Richard. Elaine told me she had a recording, but she never played it for me. She said it would destroy the people involved.””
I thought about the flash drive from my mother's desk.
“Maybe it's on there.””
Martin nodded.
“The police have it. They'll make a forensic copy and examine its contents.””
Victoria shook her head.
“That's not the recording.””
“How would you know?”” I asked.
“Because Elaine told me the audio was stored separately. She said it was somewhere nobody would think to look.””
Dad paced toward the window.
“Where?””
Victoria looked at him.
“Your wife's memorial room.””
Nobody spoke.
The memorial room was a small conservatory at the rear of the estate. Dad had created it shortly after my mother's death, filling it with her books, photographs, and favorite plants. He rarely entered it, and Victoria had never shown much interest in it.
I remembered the last time I'd gone there.
A week earlier, I'd found a small brass music box on the windowsill. My mother used to wind it whenever she wanted me to settle down before bed. It played a simple melody, one she claimed her own mother had taught her.
I'd wound it once.
It hadn't played.
The mechanism had jammed.
I hadn't thought about it since.
“Dad,” I said, “I think I know where she might have hidden something.””
He turned toward me.
“What?””
“The music box in Mom's memorial room.””
Victoria's eyes widened.
“What music box?””
I noticed the question.
“You knew about the room, but you don't know about the box?””
“I haven't been in there for years.””
“Then why did you look so frightened when I mentioned it?””
She opened her mouth.
Before she could answer, a security officer entered the sitting room.
“Mr. Hayes, the head of security is on the phone.””
Dad took the call.
I watched his expression change as he listened.
“Repeat that,” he said.
A pause.
“When did he leave?””
Another pause.
Dad gripped the phone.
“Find him. Now.””
He ended the call.
Martin stood.
“What happened?””
“The head of security left the property twenty minutes ago. He said he was going to collect additional camera equipment from our secondary office.””
“Did he have permission?””
“No.””
Dad looked toward the police officer.
“His name is Robert Gaines. He's been with me for twelve years.””
The officer immediately radioed the information to his colleagues.
I felt my stomach tighten.
Twelve years.
Long enough to know every camera, every lock, every blind spot in the estate.
Long enough to know where Dad kept his safe.
Long enough to know how to disable a camera without triggering a power alarm.
“Dad,” I said, “what if Robert is the person who helped them?””
Dad looked as if I'd struck him.
“He's been loyal to this family.””
“Was he loyal to Mom?””
The question hung between us.
Dad didn't answer.
Then the officer's radio crackled.
A voice came through, distorted by static.
“Unit three, we have located Gaines's vehicle abandoned near the north road. The driver's door is open. No sign of the subject.””
The officer responded immediately.
“Begin a perimeter search. Notify neighboring units.””
Dad stared at the floor.
Then Victoria spoke.
“Robert wasn't the person who hired Daniel.””
Everyone turned toward her.
“How do you know?”” Martin asked.
“Because Robert doesn't make decisions like that. He follows orders.””
“Whose orders?”” Dad demanded.
Victoria's lower lip trembled.
“I don't know the whole arrangement. I only know Robert received instructions from someone who could access the family accounts.””
“Who?””
She looked at Dad.
Then at me.
And finally, she whispered, “Your father's older brother.””
The room fell silent.
My father went completely still.
“That's impossible,” he said.
Victoria shook her head.
“I'm sorry.””
“Thomas died eleven years ago.””
“I know what you were told.””
Dad seized the edge of the table.
“My brother died in a car accident. I identified his body.””
Victoria's eyes filled with tears.
“Richard, I never said he was alive.””
“Then what are you saying?””
She swallowed.
“Someone has been using his name.””
Martin slowly sat down.
I looked at the photograph of my mother on the table.
“Why would someone use your dead brother's name?”” I asked.
Dad didn't answer.
He was staring at the far wall, where an old family photograph hung above the fireplace.
It showed Dad as a young man, standing beside a handsome man with the same broad shoulders and neatly cropped hair.
Thomas Hayes.
My father's brother.
The man whose funeral I barely remembered.
The man whose death had supposedly left Dad as the sole surviving heir to their father's real estate company.
Dad approached the photograph.
His fingers brushed the frame.
“Thomas was involved in the company before I was,” he said quietly.
“He knew the original ownership structure. He knew where every account was held.””
Martin rose.
“If someone has been using his identity, we need to revisit the records surrounding his death.””
Dad turned toward him.
“Are you suggesting my brother's death was fabricated?””
“I'm suggesting we verify everything.””
A sound came from the memorial room.
A soft metallic click.
Then a melody began to play.
The music box.
We all turned toward the conservatory door.
I ran first.
The small brass box sat on the windowsill, its lid open.
The melody floated through the room, gentle and familiar.
But the box hadn't been there when I'd left it earlier.
Someone had moved it.
I approached slowly.
Inside the box, beneath the tiny turning ballerina, lay a folded strip of paper.
I lifted it out.
Four words were written in my mother's handwriting.
*ASK WHO IDENTIFIED THOMAS.*
I turned toward my father.
He stood in the doorway, staring at the note.
Then his phone rang.
The caller's number was blocked.
Dad answered without speaking.
A man's voice came through the speaker.
Older. Calm. Unmistakably familiar in the way it made my father's face change.
“Hello, Richard.””
Dad's hand began to tremble.
The voice continued.
May you like
“It's been a long time, little brother.””
And then the man laughed.
