Chapter 3
Rachel’s box was in the attic.
At least, it was supposed to be.
After my first wife died, I packed away the things I could not bear to see every day.
Her letters.
Her old camera.
The blanket she brought Ethan home in.
A small cedar box her father had given her when she turned sixteen.
I had not opened it in years.
Olivia hated the attic.
She said grief should not have its own room.
Now I understood.
She was not offended by grief.
She was afraid of evidence.
Michael drove Ethan and me to the hospital first.
I needed to see my mother.
I needed to hear her voice.
She lay in bed with bruises across one side of her face and a brace around her neck.
The sight nearly broke me.
“Mom.”
Her eyes filled when she saw Ethan.
“My brave boy.”
Ethan ran to the bed but stopped, afraid to touch her.
She lifted her hand weakly.
He took it.
“I’m sorry,” he cried.
“No, sweetheart,” she whispered. “You saved me.”
I bent over her.
“Mom, what is in Rachel’s box?”
Her eyes moved to mine.
Fear.
Urgency.
“Letters,” she said.
“From Rachel?”
She nodded.
“And a drive.”
“What drive?”
“Rachel kept records. Before the accident.”
My blood went cold.
Rachel had died in a car accident four years earlier.
A truck ran a red light on a rainy morning.
The driver said his brakes failed.
The police called it tragic.
Sudden.
Unavoidable.
My mother gripped my hand.
“Rachel thought someone was watching her.”
I could not move.
“She never told me.”
“She tried,” Mom whispered. “You were traveling. She called me. She said if anything happened, I should protect Ethan from Olivia.”
The name hit like a fist.
“Rachel knew Olivia?”
My mother closed her eyes.
“Yes.”
“How?”
“She worked for Rachel’s father. Years ago. Different name.”
Michael stepped closer.
“What different name?”
Mom whispered, “Olivia Crane.”
I knew that name.
Not well.
But enough.
Rachel’s father, Richard Wells, had owned a private investment firm before he died.
After Rachel’s death, a portion of his estate passed into trust for Ethan.
Millions.
Protected until Ethan turned twenty-five.
Olivia had always said it was unhealthy that Rachel’s money still shaped our lives.
I thought she meant emotionally.
I was wrong.
The doctor came in and told us my mother needed rest.
I kissed her forehead.
“I’ll get the box.”
She grabbed my sleeve.
“Don’t go alone.”
“I won’t.”
“And Daniel?”
“Yes?”
“Trust Ethan.”
I looked at my son.
He stood beside Michael, small and pale, but listening.
“I do.”
When we got home, the front door was open.
Michael pulled me back.
“Stay behind me.”
“I’m not letting you walk in first.”
He gave me a look.
“This is not the time for older-brother pride.”
“I’m the older brother.”
“And I’m the one who still goes to the gym.”
We entered together.
The house was too quiet.
Drawers were open in the hallway table.
Cabinet doors hung wide in the study.
Someone had searched the place fast.
And badly.
“Attic,” I said.
We ran upstairs.
The attic door was open.
My chest tightened.
Boxes were scattered across the floor.
Rachel’s clothes had been thrown from garment bags.
Photo albums lay open and bent.
Then Ethan cried out.
“Daddy!”
He pointed to the corner.
The cedar box was still there, hidden beneath an old quilt.
But the lock had been broken.
I opened it.
Inside were letters.
Photos.
A flash drive.
And a small black notebook.
Michael exhaled.
“She didn’t find it.”
“Or she didn’t have time.”
I picked up the notebook.
Rachel’s handwriting filled the first page.
If I am wrong, I am paranoid. If I am right, Ethan is not safe.
My knees weakened.
I sat on the attic floor and read.
Rachel had written about a woman named Olivia Crane contacting her father before his death.
About missing client money.
About forged internal transfers.
About threats.
Then one entry stopped me breathing.
Olivia Crane came to the house today. She asked to see Ethan. I told her no. She smiled and said blood money always finds its way back.
Michael whispered, “Daniel.”
He held up a photograph from the box.
Rachel stood outside her father’s office.
Behind her, partly hidden by a car, was Olivia.
Younger.
Different hair.
Same eyes.
My phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
A text appeared.
You should have burned the attic first.
May you like
Then a photo came through.
Olivia standing beside my mother’s hospital room door.
