[CHAPTER 4]
Dad stopped treating the situation like a family argument after we heard Martin’s voice.
He locked the doors.
He changed the security codes.
He called the detective whose card the officers had left behind.
Then he sat at the kitchen table with both hands pressed against his face.
I had never seen my father look small before.
Dad was the person who fixed things.
Broken pipes.
Bad grades.
Nightmares.
Court battles at work.
When Mom died, he was the one who sat beside me every night until I could sleep without waking up crying.
But now he looked like someone had taken the floor out from under him.
“I trusted him.”
I sat across from him.
“Martin?”
Dad laughed bitterly.
“Both of them.”
Elena had taken Noah home after promising to return the next morning.
The police had copied Mara’s phone.
They warned us not to contact Lydia or Martin about the recording.
Dad obeyed.
For almost three hours.
Then his phone rang.
Martin.
Dad stared at the screen.
“Don’t answer,” I said.
He let it ring.
A minute later, a text arrived.
We need to discuss what Mara left behind before you make a mistake.
Dad showed me.
My stomach tightened.
“He knows.”
“He probably talked to Lydia.”
Another message.
That woman was unstable. Do not let Clara get dragged into this.
I felt something inside me harden.
There it was again.
Everyone guilty seemed desperate to make me the weak one.
The confused one.
The injured child.
I was sixteen.
Not six.
And even at six, I had known when someone was lying.
Dad turned his phone off.
“Tomorrow we go through every trust record.”
“What about the greenhouse?”
He looked toward the dark garden.
The number from Mara’s letter seemed to sit between us.
4172.
“We wait for the police.”
I wanted to argue.
Then a loud crash came from outside.
Dad stood so quickly his chair fell over.
“What was that?”
Smoke appeared beyond the kitchen window.
Orange light flickered behind the hedge.
“The office.”
Dad ran.
I grabbed my crutches and followed.
“Clara, stay inside!”
I ignored him.
By the time I reached the terrace, flames were already climbing the side of the garden office.
The same room where we had found Mara’s letter.
Dad grabbed the hose.
I called emergency services.
Neighbors appeared near the gates.
The fire department arrived within minutes.
They stopped the flames before the building collapsed, but the inside was ruined.
The desk.
Shelves.
Cabinet.
Everything blackened.
A firefighter walked toward Dad.
“Anyone inside?”
“No.”
“Any fuel stored there?”
“Not for years.”
The man nodded slowly.
“We’ll have an investigator look.”
I knew what he was thinking.
So did Dad.
This was no accident.
Police searched the security system.
The garden camera covering that section had gone offline seven minutes before the fire.
Dad looked at the monitor.
“That’s impossible.”
Our security technician had replaced the system after my accident.
The detective pointed to the access log.
“Someone used an administrator code.”
Dad stared at it.
“Only three people have that.”
“You?”
“Yes.”
“Mrs. Whitmore?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
Dad closed his eyes.
“Martin.”
The detective wrote it down.
I suddenly remembered something.
“Wait.”
Everyone looked at me.
“After my accident, Lydia said the garden cameras weren’t working that day.”
Dad nodded.
“They had a software failure.”
“Who told you that?”
He became still.
“Martin.”
A pattern was forming.
And every line seemed to lead to the same two people.
The next morning, Dad opened the financial records.
For six years, he had trusted quarterly reports prepared by Martin’s office.
The actual bank statements told a different story.
Money had been transferred from several family accounts into companies Dad had never heard of.
Not huge amounts at first.
Ten thousand.
Fifteen.
Twenty.
Amounts small enough to hide inside investment activity.
Then the transfers grew.
Dad stared at the screen.
“This can’t happen without my authorization.”
“Did you sign anything?”
“Hundreds of things over the years.”
He rubbed his forehead.
“Martin would bring documents to the house.”
My memory stirred.
Papers on Dad’s desk.
Lydia standing beside them.
A pen.
“Dad.”
He looked at me.
“I saw her signing something once.”
“Lydia?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Before the accident.”
My heart began pounding.
A scene came back.
I had entered the study looking for scissors.
Lydia was sitting in Dad’s chair.
Martin stood beside her.
She was copying Dad’s signature.
I had laughed.
I thought it was a joke.
Then Martin saw me.
He slammed a folder shut.
“What did they say?”
Dad asked.
I closed my eyes.
“Lydia said they were practicing your signature for a birthday card.”
Dad looked sick.
I almost laughed from the absurdity of it.
I had believed them because adults always had explanations.
We drove to the greenhouse with two detectives that afternoon.
The building smelled like damp soil.
At the far end stood an old metal storage cabinet.
Dad entered 4172.
The lock clicked.
Inside was a blue ledger.
Mara had mentioned it.
Dad opened the first page.
Dates.
Amounts.
Initials.
L.W.
M.C.
And beside several transfers was another notation.
C.T.
Dad frowned.
“What is C.T.?”
The detective photographed each page.
Then I saw a date I recognized.
The day I fell.
Next to it was a payment.
$25,000.
Recipient: C. Turner.
The detective looked at Dad.
“Who is Turner?”
Dad’s voice became very quiet.
“Our former groundskeeper.”
I remembered him.
Calvin.
He had disappeared two days after my accident.
Dad had been told his mother was ill.
The detective turned the page.
Another payment.
Five thousand dollars.
Three weeks later.
Beside it were two words.
KEEP QUIET.
My crutches suddenly felt useless beneath me.
Because the garden had just revealed another secret.
Lydia had not only chased me.
May you like
Someone had been paid afterward.
And somewhere out there was a man who might know exactly why.
