Chapter 4 - The Night Isabella Died
Victoria didn’t get far.
Grant’s guards stopped her before she reached the staircase.
“Take your hands off me!”
She fought like humiliation offended her more than accusation.
I followed.
“Where were you going?”
She spun around.
“To my attorney.”
“He’s ten feet behind you.”
Her face tightened.
“Mason, that ledger proves nothing.”
“It proves you paid Conrad after my wife died.”
“For services.”
“What vehicle?”
Silence.
“What vehicle, Mother?”
Her attorney stepped between us.
“This conversation is over.”
I ignored him.
Grant’s phone buzzed.
He read the message.
“Conrad’s widow has more.”
Victoria closed her eyes.
Grant looked at me.
“A storage unit.”
We were there before sunrise.
I took Naomi with me.
I didn’t know why.
Maybe because she had already spent five years being excluded from the truth.
I refused to do it again.
The storage facility sat forty minutes outside Manhattan.
Conrad’s widow, Denise Price, met us beside a row of metal doors.
She was a tired woman in her sixties.
“I should’ve called someone years ago,” she said.
“Why didn’t you?”
She looked at me.
“Because Conrad told me your family could erase people.”
Naomi went still beside me.
Denise noticed.
“He talked about you once.”
Naomi swallowed.
“What did he say?”
“He said there was one job he wished he could undo.”
She unlocked the unit.
Inside were filing cabinets.
Boxes.
A desk.
And a red metal toolbox.
Denise handed me a folder.
ISABELLA HALE.
My fingers felt numb.
Inside were photographs of Isabella’s car.
Repair invoices.
Security logs.
And a report written by a private mechanic.
I read it twice.
BRAKE LINE SHOWS SIGNS OF INTENTIONAL INTERFERENCE.
Naomi grabbed my arm.
“Mason.”
I couldn’t speak.
For three years I had believed Isabella lost control on a wet road.
The police report said brake failure caused by impact.
This report had been completed two days before the official investigation closed.
It had never reached police.
“Who commissioned this?” I asked.
Denise pointed.
“Conrad.”
“Why?”
“He suspected something.”
I turned pages.
One photograph showed a parking garage.
Another showed a man near Isabella’s SUV.
The image was grainy.
But I recognized him.
Dr. Malcolm Hargrove.
The fertility doctor.
Naomi gasped.
“No.”
Grant leaned closer.
“He was at the house?”
“Apparently.”
I flipped the photograph.
A date was written on the back.
The night before Isabella died.
Denise opened another box.
“There’s audio.”
My chest tightened.
She removed an old digital recorder.
“Conrad recorded calls. He didn’t trust anyone.”
I pressed play.
Static.
Then my mother’s voice.
“You were supposed to scare her.”
A man answered.
Hargrove.
“I didn’t touch the brakes.”
My skin went cold.
Victoria again.
“Then who did?”
“I don’t know.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“She was asking questions. I told Conrad she needed to stop.”
A long silence.
Then Hargrove said something that made Naomi grip the desk.
“Victoria, Isabella has copies.”
My mother’s voice became sharp.
“Find them.”
The recording ended.
I stumbled backward.
Naomi reached for me.
“Mason.”
“I sent her out alone that night.”
“What?”
“We argued.”
The memory returned with brutal clarity.
Isabella had stood in our bedroom holding her coat.
“You trust your mother more than you trust me.”
I had been exhausted.
Angry.
Confused by months of secrecy.
I said words I would have given anything to take back.
“If you have something to say, then say it.”
She looked at me with tears in her eyes.
“I’m trying to protect Noah.”
I laughed bitterly.
“From what?”
She whispered, “From your family.”
I told her she was being dramatic.
She left.
Three hours later police called.
I pressed my palms against my eyes.
“I let her leave.”
Naomi stood in front of me.
“You didn’t know.”
“I should have listened.”
“You didn’t know.”
“I was her husband.”
“And Victoria was your mother.”
Her voice broke.
“She built a world where doubting her felt impossible.”
I looked at Naomi.
“You’re defending me?”
“No.”
She wiped her tears.
“I’m telling you guilt belongs where guilt belongs.”
I stared at her.
For five years, she had every reason to hate my family.
Somehow she still knew how to separate me from what they had done.
Grant interrupted.
“There’s one more file.”
It concerned Noah.
My heart immediately raced.
“What?”
He handed it over.
Inside were reports from a private investigator.
Photographs of Naomi.
Her apartment.
Her workplace.
Her grocery store.
She had been watched for years.
Every six months.
Victoria had never stopped monitoring her.
Naomi sank into a chair.
“She knew where I was.”
“Yes.”
“She knew I was grieving.”
I couldn’t answer.
Then we found something worse.
A photograph from seven months earlier.
Naomi entering my estate for her first day of work.
My mother had written across it in red ink.
SHE FOUND HIM.
Underneath:
REMOVE HER BEFORE MASON NOTICES.
I stared at the note.
“She knew you worked for me.”
Naomi looked horrified.
“I thought I got the job by accident.”
“You didn’t.”
Someone had hired Naomi.
But it wasn’t my mother.
Grant searched the file.
“There’s a recommendation letter.”
He pulled it free.
The letter had been submitted to our household manager.
It praised Naomi’s reliability and experience.
The signature was unfamiliar.
Elaine Parker.
Naomi frowned.
“I don’t know anyone named Elaine Parker.”
Denise whispered,
“I do.”
We turned.
“Who?”
She looked at the paper.
“Evelyn Park.”
“The nurse?”
“She used Parker sometimes after she retired.”
My chest tightened.
The dying nurse who had contacted Naomi had done more than confess.
She had placed Naomi inside my house.
Close to Noah.
Close to me.
“She wanted us to find each other,” Naomi whispered.
I looked at her.
Maybe she was right.
A phone rang.
Grant answered.
His expression immediately changed.
“What happened?”
He covered the microphone.
“It’s the house.”
My pulse spiked.
“Noah?”
Grant nodded.
My entire body went cold.
“What happened?”
“Your mother’s gone.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“She left with Celeste Whitmore twenty minutes ago.”
I grabbed the phone.
“Where is Noah?”
There was silence.
Too much silence.
Then Ruth’s terrified voice came through.
“Mr. Hale…”
May you like
My knees weakened.
“Noah is missing too.”
