Chapter 4
Five Days Before My Father Died
I hadn't heard my father's voice in four years.
Not clearly.
Not outside the old recordings saved on my phone.
But the voice in that message was unmistakable.
Strong.
Deep.
Angry.
"If anything happens to me, don't let Richard near Nia."
I sat down because my knees couldn't hold me.
Marcus remained beside the dressing table.
Patricia examined the audio file.
Neither spoke.
I stared at the photograph.
My father stood outside a warehouse wearing his familiar navy work jacket.
Richard faced him.
His hands were raised.
His expression looked furious.
I recognized the location immediately.
Bennett Distribution's original warehouse.
The first building my father ever owned.
The place where I spent my childhood Saturdays watching him organize deliveries.
I touched the screen.
"Daddy."
My voice broke.
Marcus moved closer.
I raised one hand.
"Please."
He stopped.
I needed space.
I needed answers.
And I needed to understand why my father had warned someone about the family I was about to marry into.
Patricia placed a hand on my shoulder.
"Nia, we should preserve this message."
I nodded.
"Can you trace the sender?"
"We'll try."
She forwarded the files to a secure account and documented the sender's number.
Then she looked at me.
"Do you remember anything unusual before your father's death?"
I closed my eyes.
My father had died from what doctors described as a sudden cardiac event.
He was fifty-six.
He'd worked too hard for too long.
That was what everyone said.
But the week before his death, he'd been different.
Quieter.
Distracted.
He'd called me twice in one evening.
He'd asked whether I was safe.
At the time, I thought he was simply worried about me starting my own business career.
Now those calls felt different.
"He told me not to trust easy money," I whispered.
Patricia frowned.
"What?"
I looked up.
"The week before he died, he told me someone had offered him an investment deal."
"Did he name the person?"
I shook my head.
"He said the deal looked too good to be true."
Marcus stepped closer.
"Richard?"
I looked at him.
"I don't know."
Then I remembered something else.
"My father kept a notebook."
Patricia leaned forward.
"What kind?"
"A small black notebook. He wrote down everything."
I wiped my face.
"He called it his second memory."
Marcus frowned.
"Do you still have it?"
I shook my head.
"I haven't seen it since his funeral."
Patricia looked thoughtful.
"Where were his belongings stored?"
"His office."
I stood.
"I need to go there."
Marcus reached for my arm.
"Nia, the wedding—"
I turned.
"There is no wedding today."
His face crumpled.
I immediately felt pain.
Not because I regretted the decision.
Because I still loved him.
And that made everything harder.
He swallowed.
"Are you ending us?"
I looked at him.
"I don't know."
His eyes filled.
"Nia..."
"I need to find out whether your family tried to steal my inheritance."
He lowered his head.
"And whether your father had something to do with my father's death."
Marcus stepped backward.
I could see the words hurting him.
But I couldn't soften them.
Not anymore.
Patricia placed the legal documents inside her folder.
"I'll arrange for the altered agreement to be preserved as evidence."
I nodded.
Then I looked at my wedding dress.
The off-shoulder lace gown.
The jeweled tiara.
The veil that had taken three fittings to perfect.
I'd imagined walking down the aisle toward Marcus.
I'd imagined our first dance.
Our future home.
Our children.
Now the dress felt like a costume from someone else's life.
I removed the tiara.
Placed it on the dressing table.
Then carefully took off my engagement ring.
Marcus stared.
"Nia."
I held it out.
He didn't take it.
"Please don't."
Tears rolled down my cheeks.
"I can't wear this right now."
He looked devastated.
After a moment, he accepted the ring.
I turned away.
My heart was breaking.
But I knew I couldn't marry someone while so many questions remained unanswered.
An hour later, I changed into jeans and a sweater.
Patricia accompanied me to the old warehouse.
Marcus insisted on coming.
I almost refused.
Then I realized he might know something about Richard's business dealings.
I agreed.
But only because we needed answers.
The warehouse stood near an industrial road outside Atlanta.
Its brick walls were faded.
The loading bays were quiet.
My father's company had grown far beyond this place.
But I had kept the building because it held too many memories.
I unlocked the office.
The familiar smell of old paper and wood filled the room.
His desk was still there.
His leather chair.
His framed photograph of my mother, who had died when I was sixteen.
And a small picture of my younger sister, Leah.
I touched the photograph.
Leah was twenty-one now.
She was finishing college.
The education fund my father created was supposed to protect her future.
I couldn't let anyone take it.
Patricia began examining the desk drawers.
Marcus looked through the filing cabinet.
I opened the small safe behind my father's bookshelf.
Inside were old contracts.
Tax records.
Family photographs.
Then I found a leather pouch.
My heart pounded.
I opened it.
Inside was the black notebook.
I almost cried.
"Daddy."
I carried it to the desk.
The first pages were ordinary.
Delivery schedules.
Employee names.
Fuel expenses.
Then the handwriting changed.
The notes became shorter.
More urgent.
I turned to the final pages.
RICHARD WILLIAMS — FALSE INVESTMENT FIGURES.
TRANSFER RECORDS DO NOT MATCH.
DO NOT SIGN.
I felt cold.
Patricia leaned closer.
"Keep reading."
I turned the page.
One sentence had been underlined three times.
IF I DISAPPEAR, CHECK THE ORIGINAL DELIVERY LOGS.
My stomach twisted.
Then I saw the final entry.
Dated the day before my father died.
RICHARD KNOWS I HAVE THE RECORDINGS.
I looked at Marcus.
His face was pale.
"Nia..."
I turned another page.
A folded photograph slipped out.
It showed my father standing beside a young woman I didn't recognize.
On the back, he'd written:
IF ANYTHING HAPPENS, TRUST HER.
I stared at the woman's face.
Then Patricia leaned over my shoulder.
Her expression changed.
"Oh, my God."
I looked up.
"What?"
She pointed at the photograph.
"Nia, that's my mother."
May you like
And suddenly, the mystery became even more complicated.
Because my attorney's family was connected to my father's final days.
