Chapter 7
We opened the metal case at Grandma's kitchen table.
Dad had called Patricia before touching anything inside.
She advised us to photograph the sealed case and its contents, then preserve the original materials for investigators.
So we moved carefully.
Grandma sat beside me.
Her hands were folded tightly.
Dad stood behind my chair.
Inside the case were three envelopes.
A small recording device.
Several printed financial statements.
And a sealed letter addressed to me.
My name was written in my mother's handwriting.
MALIK, MY BEAUTIFUL BOY.
I picked it up.
My chest tightened.
"Can I read this first?"
Dad nodded.
"Of course."
I opened the envelope.
The paper smelled faintly of old books.
I unfolded the pages.
My darling Malik,
If you are reading this, you are probably much older than the little boy who still asks me to check under his bed for monsters.
I laughed through my tears.
She remembered.
Every night, I made her look beneath the bed.
Even when I knew nothing was there.
I kept reading.
There are things happening that I don't fully understand yet.
I have found records that suggest someone we love has been taking money from the company.
I hope I'm wrong.
But if I'm not, I want the truth to be protected.
My fingers tightened.
Then came the sentence that broke my heart.
Whatever happens, please remember that your father loves you.
He may make mistakes.
He may become frightened.
But he has always wanted to give you a beautiful life.
I looked up.
Dad was crying silently.
I continued.
And remember that you are never responsible for the bad choices adults make.
You are a good boy.
A brave boy.
And you deserve to be believed.
I couldn't read anymore.
I covered my mouth.
Grandma wrapped her arm around me.
"Oh, sweetheart."
I buried my face against her shoulder.
For several minutes, I cried like the seven-year-old boy who had lost his mother.
When I finally looked up, Dad was kneeling beside me.
"I'm sorry, Malik."
I shook my head.
"Mom knew."
His voice broke.
"She knew how much I loved you."
I pressed the letter against my chest.
Then Grandma reached toward the recording device.
"Angela left that here two days before the accident."
Dad stared.
"Did she tell you what was on it?"
Grandma shook her head.
"She said it was important. She wanted it kept somewhere Raymond couldn't find it."
I looked at Patricia's instructions.
Then carefully photographed the device.
Dad called Detective Harris.
The detective arranged for it to be collected and examined.
I wanted to play it immediately.
Every part of me wanted to hear my mother's voice.
But I understood why the original needed to be protected.
So I waited.
The next two days felt endless.
We stayed in Savannah with Grandma.
For the first time in years, she told me stories about Mom.
How she loved singing while cooking.
How she failed her first driving test.
How she once rescued an injured dog and refused to leave the veterinarian's office until someone helped it.
I laughed.
I cried.
I asked a hundred questions.
Grandma answered every one.
Then Detective Harris called.
The recording device had been examined.
An audio file was recoverable.
He asked us to return to Atlanta.
The next morning, we sat in a private conference room with Detective Harris and Patricia.
The detective explained that the recording was being evaluated alongside the other evidence.
Then he played a copy.
At first, there was static.
A door closing.
Footsteps.
Then a woman's voice.
My mother's voice.
"Raymond, I know about the transfers."
I stopped breathing.
Ten years.
Ten years since I had heard her speak.
And suddenly, there she was.
Alive in a recording.
Strong.
Angry.
Determined.
A man's voice answered.
"Angela, you're making a mistake."
My father gripped the table.
Raymond.
Mom continued.
"I have the records. Money was moved through three companies connected to you."
Raymond laughed.
"You don't understand business."
"I understand fraud."
There was a sharp sound.
Something being placed on a table.
Then Mom said, "I'm taking this to Marcus."
Raymond's voice changed.
"You'll destroy this family."
"No," she answered. "You did that when you started stealing."
I felt tears running down my face.
Raymond spoke again.
"If you show him those documents, you'll regret it."
My mother didn't hesitate.
"Are you threatening me?"
Silence.
Then Raymond said, "I'm warning you."
The recording ended shortly afterward.
Nobody moved.
I stared at the speaker.
I wanted to hear her again.
But I couldn't bear it.
Dad covered his face.
Grandma reached for my hand.
Detective Harris spoke gently.
"The recording supports evidence of a financial dispute and a threat. It does not, by itself, establish that Raymond caused Angela's accident."
I nodded.
I understood.
But the words were enough to change how I saw everything.
Mom had stood up to Raymond.
And he had threatened her.
The detective continued.
"We're also reviewing the financial records in the case."
Patricia opened one of the recovered statements.
Several transactions matched records from the old company investigation.
Others linked to accounts that investigators had recently associated with Raymond's false identities.
Dad stared at the documents.
"My brother kept using the same methods."
The detective nodded.
"We're investigating whether those accounts remained active."
I leaned forward.
"Can you arrest him?"
"We're working to locate him."
My stomach twisted.
He was still out there.
Then Detective Harris's phone rang.
He stepped into the hallway.
I watched through the glass.
His expression became serious.
He returned several minutes later.
"Mr. Williams."
Dad looked up.
"What happened?"
"We have new information about Raymond's location."
My heart hammered.
"Where?"
The detective hesitated.
"He's believed to be heading toward the airport."
Dad stood.
"He's leaving?"
"We're coordinating with the appropriate authorities."
I felt a surge of panic.
After everything, Raymond might escape again.
I stood.
"He can't disappear!"
Detective Harris looked directly at me.
"Malik, we'll handle this."
I wanted to believe him.
But fear was stronger than logic.
Then my phone vibrated.
Another unknown message.
I looked down.
A photograph appeared.
It showed the front entrance of Grandma's house.
Taken that morning.
My blood ran cold.
Below it were five words.
YOU SHOULD HAVE LEFT IT BURIED.
I handed the phone to Detective Harris.
He read the message.
Then immediately called another officer.
Dad moved beside me.
His arm wrapped around my shoulders.
For the first time, I wasn't ashamed of being frightened.
Because someone had followed us.
May you like
Someone knew where Grandma lived.
And someone was furious that we had found the truth.
