Chapter 6
I listened to Denise's voicemail three times.
Each time, my stomach tightened.
If you want to know what really happened to Monica, meet me alone.
I wanted to drive straight to her.
I wanted to demand every answer she had hidden.
But I remembered the warehouse invitation.
The insurance policy.
The forged documents.
And I refused to put myself in danger.
I called Detective Carter.
She listened to the recording.
Then she asked,
"Do you believe Denise has information about Monica's death?"
"I don't know."
"Would she agree to speak with investigators?"
I laughed bitterly.
"She specifically told me not to tell anyone."
The detective paused.
"That doesn't mean you have to follow her instructions."
I nodded.
She was right.
I had spent too much time allowing other people's secrets to control my life.
I wasn't going to start again.
With the detective's guidance, I sent Denise a message.
If you have information about Monica, tell the police. I won't meet you secretly.
She replied almost immediately.
You don't understand how dangerous Anthony is.
I stared at the screen.
Then another message appeared.
He knows what happened that night.
My hands began shaking.
I forwarded everything to Detective Carter.
An hour later, Denise agreed to meet investigators with her attorney present.
I wasn't allowed to attend the interview.
I waited at home.
Maya sat beside me.
She had stopped studying.
Her textbooks remained open, untouched.
"Dad?"
I looked at her.
"Yes?"
"Do you think Uncle Anthony hurt Mom?"
I felt my chest tighten.
"I don't know, sweetheart."
She looked down.
"But you're scared he did."
I swallowed.
"Yes."
She began crying.
I pulled her close.
"We're going to let the evidence tell us what happened."
She nodded.
Then whispered,
"I miss her."
My heart broke.
"I know."
I kissed her forehead.
"I miss her too."
We sat together for a long time.
Then Maya asked something unexpected.
"Dad, did you love Denise?"
I looked at her.
The question hurt.
Because I had.
I had loved the woman I thought Denise was.
The woman who brought laughter back into my house.
The woman who comforted me when grief returned.
The woman who promised to love Maya.
"Yes," I answered.
Maya looked away.
"Do you still?"
I took a slow breath.
"I don't know what feelings will remain after everything is settled."
She nodded.
I continued.
"But I know I can't trust her."
Maya looked at me.
"And I know protecting you matters more than pretending our marriage is okay."
Tears filled her eyes.
She leaned against me.
"Thank you, Dad."
I held her close.
That evening, Detective Carter called.
Denise had provided information about Anthony's financial activities.
She admitted they had used Maya's inheritance to cover business losses.
She also admitted that Anthony had pressured her to help conceal the transfers.
But she denied knowing anything about Monica's death.
I felt anger rise.
"Then why did she tell me she knew what happened?"
The detective answered,
"She says Anthony made comments suggesting he had interfered with Monica's medication."
My stomach turned.
"What comments?"
"She claims he told her that Monica 'should have stayed out of his business.'"
I closed my eyes.
The detective continued.
"She also provided a copy of an old message."
My heart pounded.
"From Anthony?"
"Yes."
"What does it say?"
A pause.
Then she read it.
Monica was going to ruin everything. I handled it.
I felt the world tilt.
I gripped the kitchen counter.
"Handled it?"
The detective spoke carefully.
"That language is concerning, but we still need to establish what it means and verify the message."
I nodded.
I understood.
Words weren't enough.
We needed evidence.
The next several days were unbearable.
Investigators examined financial records from the period before Monica's death.
They found evidence that Anthony had been taking money from my company even then.
Monica had apparently noticed discrepancies.
She had contacted an accountant.
She had asked questions.
And she had prepared a folder of documents.
I remembered that folder.
A blue folder.
Monica carried it everywhere during the last month of her life.
I thought it contained school paperwork for Maya.
After she died, I couldn't find it.
Now I wondered whether Anthony had taken it.
I searched the house.
The attic.
The garage.
The storage closets.
Nothing.
Then Maya appeared in the doorway of Monica's old office.
"Dad?"
I turned.
"Yes?"
She held a small wooden box.
"Grandma gave me this after Mom died."
I stared.
My mother had kept several of Monica's belongings for Maya.
I remembered.
"What's inside?"
Maya opened the box.
Photographs.
Letters.
A few pieces of jewelry.
Then she lifted a folded piece of paper.
It was an envelope.
My name was written across the front.
In Monica's handwriting.
My hands began trembling.
"Where did you get that?"
Maya looked confused.
"It was in the box."
I stared at the envelope.
For eight years, it had been sitting in my daughter's room.
Waiting.
I opened it carefully.
Inside was a letter.
My dearest Marcus,
If you're reading this, something has happened that I was afraid might happen.
My vision blurred.
I sat down.
Maya knelt beside me.
I continued reading.
Monica wrote about suspicious company payments.
She explained that Anthony had been moving money without authorization.
She said she confronted him.
He became angry.
Then she wrote something that made my blood run cold.
I no longer feel safe around Anthony. He has been asking questions about my medication, and I caught him looking through my medical files.
I covered my mouth.
Maya began crying.
I continued.
If anything happens to me, please don't let him convince you that I was imagining things.
My hands shook.
Then I reached the final paragraph.
There is a copy of everything I found in the place where we made our first promise.
I stared at the words.
The place where we made our first promise.
My heart pounded.
I knew exactly where she meant.
The old oak tree behind my mother's house.
It was where Monica and I had promised to marry each other when we were twenty-three.
We had buried a small metal box there.
A time capsule.
I had forgotten about it.
Until now.
I looked at Maya.
"Get your shoes."
She stared.
"Where are we going?"
I stood.
May you like
"To find what your mother left us."
And for the first time in eight years, I felt as though Monica was still guiding us toward the truth.
