Chapter 7: What My Father Hid Beneath the Floor
For three seconds, I couldn't move.
Marcus stood in the middle of my wedding garden, his black tuxedo wrinkled, his face drained of color. My father's letter trembled between my fingers, and the small brass key pressed into my palm.
“You took something from my father's house?”” I asked.
Marcus looked toward the guests.
“Not here, Nia.””
“You've said that all afternoon. Not here. Not now.
Not in front of anyone.”” I held up the letter.
“My father left this for me. What did you take?””
He lowered his voice.
“I didn't know what it was when I found it.””
“That doesn't answer my question.””
Vanessa had stopped crying. She stood several feet behind him, staring at the brass key with an expression I couldn't understand.
My mother moved closer to me.
“Marcus, tell her what you did.””
He looked at Evelyn.
“You knew about this?””
“I knew Robert kept things private,” she replied.
“I never knew what was under that floorboard.””
Marcus laughed nervously.
“Then there's nothing to worry about.””
My mother's expression hardened.
“If there's nothing to worry about, why did you take it?””
He said nothing.
I folded my father's letter carefully and slipped it into my purse.
“I'm going to the house.””
Marcus immediately shook his head.
“No. You shouldn't go there alone.””
I stared at him.
“You're the last person who gets to tell me where I should go.””
“I'm serious, Nia. There are people involved in this situation who won't like you asking questions.””
The threat was subtle, but I heard it.
So did Daniel, who had remained near the reception table.
“Are you threatening her?”” Daniel asked.
Marcus turned sharply.
“I'm warning her.””
“About what?””
Marcus looked away.
I didn't wait for an answer. I took my mother's hand and walked toward the garden entrance.
Behind us, Vanessa called out.
“Nia, wait!””
I turned.
She hurried toward me, her uneven ponytail swinging against her neck.
“Please,” she said.
“If you're going to the house, don't touch anything until you understand what you're looking at.””
“Why?””
Her eyes filled with tears.
“Because my brother doesn't know everything.””
Marcus grabbed her elbow.
“Vanessa, stop.””
She jerked away.
“You told me this would be over today! You promised!””
He leaned toward her and spoke through clenched teeth.
“And I told you to keep your mouth shut.””
I watched them for a moment.
Then I left.
The drive to my father's house took twenty-two minutes.
My mother sat beside me, holding her ruined hair away from her face with a scarf she had found in my bridal bag. Neither of us spoke for the first ten minutes.
The wedding dress rustled against the driver's seat every time I turned the wheel.
Finally, Evelyn whispered, “Your father would hate this.””
I glanced at her.
“He would hate Marcus.””
“He would hate that someone made you doubt your own judgment.””
My throat tightened.
“I should have seen it.””
“No.””
“Mom, I trusted him with my money. I gave him a key to the house. I let him tell me he was handling the wedding paperwork.””
“You trusted the man who told you he loved you. That's not a crime.””
I swallowed hard.
“What if Dad knew something was wrong? What if that letter was meant to warn me?””
My mother looked out the window.
“Your father didn't write that note three weeks ago, sweetheart. He wrote it years ago. We don't know what he meant.””
The words should have comforted me.
They didn't.
Because Marcus had apparently discovered the secret before I did.
And whatever lay beneath that floorboard had become important enough for him to risk everything.
When we reached the house, I parked in the driveway and sat still for a moment.
The white picket fence needed repainting. Fallen magnolia petals lay scattered across the front lawn. My father's old wind chime still hung beside the porch, tapping softly against its wooden frame.
Everything looked familiar.
Everything looked safe.
But when I unlocked the front door, I noticed a faint scratch beside the lock.
Then I saw another near the doorframe.
Someone had forced the door.
I stepped inside cautiously, my mother close behind me.
The house smelled of lemon polish, old books, and the lavender sachets my mother kept in the linen closet.
Yet something felt wrong.
The living room curtains had been pulled shut. A photograph of my father and me, usually displayed on the mantel, lay facedown on the coffee table.
I picked it up.
The glass was cracked.
My mother gasped.
“Oh, Robert.””
I placed the frame carefully on the sofa.
“Stay here.””
“Nia, I'm not letting you walk around this house alone.””
We moved together through the hallway.
The kitchen was untouched, but the study door stood open.
My father's study had always been my favorite room. He kept his tools in labeled drawers, his financial records in a locked cabinet, and his books arranged according to subjects only he understood.
Now, several drawers hung open.
Folders lay scattered across the desk.
The bottom cabinet had been forced.
And the rug beneath the desk had been pulled aside.
I stared at the floor.
Three wooden boards near the desk had been lifted.
One of them lay against the wall.
Someone had already searched beneath the floor.
I knelt.
The narrow compartment my father had built was empty except for a small envelope and a torn piece of dark fabric.
My breath caught.
“Marcus,” I whispered.
My mother knelt beside me.
“What's in the envelope?””
I opened it.
Inside was a photocopy of a document bearing my father's signature, along with a handwritten list of dates and account numbers.
At the bottom, my father had written:
If you're reading this, someone has already found the first file. Do not trust anyone who says the property was meant to be shared.
I read the sentence aloud.
My mother went pale.
“Robert knew someone might come looking.””
I looked at the empty compartment.
“What was in the first file?””
Before she could answer, I noticed a small metal plate screwed into the inside of the floor cavity.
The plate had a narrow keyhole.
I took the brass key from my purse.
It fit.
My hands shook as I turned it.
A hidden drawer slid out from beneath the floorboards.
Inside was a sealed plastic pouch containing a flash drive, a thick stack of papers, and a photograph.
The photograph showed my father standing outside a bank beside a younger man.
I recognized my father immediately.
The other man looked familiar, too.
I turned the photograph over.
Two words were written on the back.
*Marcus Reed.*
My stomach dropped.
The photograph had been taken eleven years earlier.
Marcus had told me he first met my family at a charity fundraiser three years ago.
But here he was, standing beside my father long before that.
My mother stared at the image.
“That's impossible.””
I looked at her.
“Did you know Marcus before I met him?””
She shook her head slowly.
“Your father knew a lot of people through his work. But he never mentioned that name.””
I pulled out the papers.
The first document was a bank statement.
The second was a signed agreement involving a business partnership.
The third contained a series of transfers from an account belonging to my father.
I scanned the page.
Then I saw the name.
Marcus Reed.
Beside it was a date from eleven years earlier and an amount large enough to make my breath catch.
My phone vibrated.
A message from Marcus appeared on the screen.
Don't open the second file. Please, Nia. Your father was protecting you from something you don't understand.
I stared at the message.
Then another arrived.
If you open it, you'll learn why I really came into your life.
My mother gripped my shoulder.
“What does he mean?””
I looked at the flash drive in my hand.
I had spent three years believing Marcus had entered my life by chance.
That we had met because two strangers happened to attend the same fundraiser.
That our first conversation, our first date, and our first kiss had been the beginning of a love story.
But the photograph had been taken eleven years ago.
Marcus had known my father.
He had known about the house.
And now he was begging me not to open a file my father had hidden beneath the floor.
I inserted the flash drive into my laptop.
A single folder appeared.
*ROBERT WASHINGTON — FINAL RECORDS.*
Inside were three files.
The first was labeled Property.
The second was labeled Transfers.
The third contained only one word.
*MARCUS.*
I clicked it.
A video file opened.
My father's face appeared on the screen, older than in the photograph but unmistakable. He sat at his study desk, wearing the blue shirt he had been buried in.
He looked directly into the camera.
“If you're watching this, Nia, then Marcus has come back into your life.””
My mother covered her mouth.
My father continued.
“And if he's managed to get close enough to you to ask for your trust, then there's something I need you to know.””
He paused.
His eyes looked tired.
“I didn't lose the money that destroyed our family business. I discovered who took it.””
The video flickered.
May you like
Then my father spoke the name that made my mother collapse into the chair beside me.
“His name was Marcus Reed.””
