Chapter 7: The Secret Behind My Mother's Death
I read the message again.
*Ask your brother what happened to your mother.*
For sixteen years, I had believed my mother died in a car accident on a rainy Thursday evening.
I remembered the phone call.
I remembered my father dropping a glass in the kitchen.
I remembered Ethan screaming when the paramedics arrived at our house.
And I remembered the funeral.
My mother had been buried in a white dress, with her favorite pearl necklace around her neck.
There had never been a reason to question what happened.
Until now.
"Eleanor," I whispered, "I need you to find out who sent this.""
She was already speaking to the security driver.
"We're moving. Now.""
I picked up Lily's carrier.
The photograph of her nursery remained open on my phone.
Someone had been inside my house.
Someone had stood close enough to my daughter's crib to take a photograph.
And Daniel had access to the property.
I felt sick.
"Can we go to the police?""
"We will," Eleanor replied.
"But first, we're taking Lily somewhere secure. Then we'll preserve the original message and request the appropriate investigation.""
I nodded.
The drive to Eleanor's private office took forty minutes.
I didn't speak.
My mind kept returning to the same question.
What happened to my mother?
When we arrived, Eleanor arranged a private room for Lily and called a trusted colleague to help with the security arrangements.
Then she placed her laptop on the desk.
"Let's start with the accident.""
She searched the date of my mother's death.
A newspaper archive appeared.
*LOCAL BUSINESSWOMAN KILLED IN SINGLE-VEHICLE COLLISION.*
The article was short.
My mother, Catherine Whitmore, had reportedly lost control of her vehicle on a wet road.
No other vehicles were involved.
No suspicious circumstances had been reported.
I read the article.
Then I noticed the location.
The accident had occurred less than two miles from the Whitmore family's investment offices.
"She wasn't supposed to be there," I said.
Eleanor looked at me.
"What do you mean?""
"My mother hated driving at night. She always took a driver when she had evening meetings.""
I stared at the article.
"Why was she driving alone?""
Eleanor searched further.
There was no detailed police report online.
But an archived court document appeared under a different search result.
She opened it.
It concerned an insurance dispute involving the vehicle.
The document mentioned a witness statement from a man named Thomas Reed.
I recognized the name.
"Thomas was my father's driver.""
Eleanor looked up.
"Do you know where he is?""
"I haven't seen him in years.""
She searched his name.
An address appeared in a small town outside the city.
Eleanor called her investigator.
Within minutes, arrangements were being made to contact him.
I sat beside Lily's carrier.
My daughter opened her eyes and made a tiny sound.
I touched her cheek.
"Mommy's here.""
My voice broke.
I had promised myself that Lily would grow up in a safe home.
I had imagined birthday parties, school photographs, scraped knees, and bedtime stories.
I hadn't imagined spending her first months investigating whether the people closest to us had lied about her grandmother's death.
My phone rang.
Ethan.
I answered immediately.
"Where are you?""
His voice was weak.
"Somewhere safe.""
"Are you hurt?""
"No. I'm okay.""
"Then tell me what happened to Mom.""
Silence.
"Ethan.""
He exhaled.
"I don't know everything.""
"Tell me what you know.""
"When Dad died, I found a box in his study. It contained old letters and some photographs.""
"What photographs?""
"Mom with Martin.""
I froze.
"Martin?""
"Yes. They were together in several pictures. Before Dad married her.""
I frowned.
"What are you saying?""
"Mom and Martin knew each other long before Dad met him professionally.""
I shook my head.
"That doesn't prove anything.""
"I know. But there was a letter.""
"What letter?""
Ethan's voice dropped.
"A letter Mom wrote to Dad. She said she had discovered that Martin was using the family business to move money without permission.""
I looked at Eleanor.
She was listening carefully.
"Did Dad know?""
"Yes. He knew.""
"Then why did he keep Martin around?""
"Because Martin threatened to expose something.""
"What?""
Ethan hesitated.
"Mom's accident.""
I gripped the phone.
"Go on.""
"Three weeks before she died, Mom told Dad she was afraid. She said someone had been following her.""
My throat tightened.
"Why didn't anyone tell us?""
"Because Dad thought keeping us away from it would protect us.""
"Protect us from what?""
"I don't know.""
"Ethan, you can't keep giving me half the truth.""
He was quiet.
Then he said:
"I found a police statement.""
My heart pounded.
"What did it say?""
"Thomas Reed told investigators that another vehicle had followed Mom's car shortly before the accident.""
I closed my eyes.
"Was it ever investigated?""
"Not properly. The statement was withdrawn two days later.""
"Why?""
"Thomas said he had made a mistake.""
I felt cold.
"Did Dad know?""
"Yes.""
I stood and walked toward the window.
"Why are you telling me this now?""
"Because I found something else.""
"What?""
"A photograph of Mom taken the afternoon she died.""
"Where?""
"In the second ledger.""
I turned toward Eleanor.
She had stopped typing.
"What was in the photograph?""
Ethan hesitated.
"Mom was standing outside Dad's office. Martin was beside her.""
"Who else?""
His voice became almost inaudible.
"Daniel.""
I couldn't speak.
Daniel.
My husband.
Standing beside my mother sixteen years before we met.
It made no sense.
"How old was Daniel?""
"About twenty-one.""
"How could he possibly have known Mom?""
"He worked as an intern for Martin's company.""
I remembered Daniel telling me that his first professional mentor had been Martin Hale.
He had described Martin as the man who gave him his first opportunity.
He had never mentioned my mother.
"Ethan, why didn't you tell me this before?""
"Because I thought Dad was involved.""
The words struck me.
"What?""
"I thought Dad had something to do with Mom's accident.""
I sat down slowly.
"Why?""
"Because he kept paying Martin after Mom died. And because he made me promise never to investigate the accident.""
I looked at Eleanor.
She was pale.
"Ethan, do you have the photograph?""
"Yes.""
"Send it.""
A few seconds later, an image appeared.
My mother stood beside a silver sedan.
She looked beautiful.
Her dark hair fell over one shoulder, and she was wearing the pearl earrings I remembered from childhood.
Martin stood beside her.
And behind them was a younger Daniel.
He was holding a document folder.
On the back of the photograph was a handwritten date.
The day my mother died.
I zoomed in.
Daniel was smiling.
My mother wasn't.
Then I noticed the building behind them.
The old Whitmore investment headquarters.
The building where my father had kept the safe.
The building where we were supposed to go.
"Eleanor," I whispered.
She looked at me.
"We need to get to the office.""
She shook her head.
"Not yet. We need to understand what we're walking into.""
I turned the photograph around again.
There was a second line written beneath the date.
*Catherine's final meeting.*
My phone rang again.
This time, it was an unfamiliar landline number.
I answered.
A man's voice spoke.
"Mrs. Whitmore?""
"Yes.""
"My name is Thomas Reed.""
I stopped breathing.
Eleanor immediately moved closer.
"I understand you're asking about Catherine.""
"Yes.""
There was a long pause.
Then he said:
"I've waited sixteen years for someone to ask the right questions.""
My fingers tightened around the phone.
"Do you know what happened to my mother?""
"I know what I saw.""
"Tell me.""
His voice trembled.
"Your mother wasn't alone when her car left the road.""
I closed my eyes.
"Who was following her?""
He took a breath.
"Martin Hale.""
"And Daniel?""
Another pause.
Then Thomas said:
"Daniel was in the passenger seat of the car that followed her.""
The call ended.
I stared at the phone.
Eleanor slowly closed her laptop.
"Now we know why Daniel wanted the second ledger.""
I looked at my daughter.
And for the first time since this nightmare began, I wasn't thinking about the divorce.
I wasn't thinking about the company.
I was thinking about sixteen years of birthdays, Christmas mornings, and family photographs built around a lie.
My mother hadn't simply died in an accident.
May you like
Someone had been there.
And my husband had known about it before he ever asked me to marry him.
