Chapter 4 - THE PROFESSOR WHO STOLE MY FUTURE
Professor Daniel Whitmore had been the person who believed in me.
At least, that was what I'd thought.
He'd praised my sketches.
Helped me apply for scholarships.
And promised to submit my portfolio to Cole House.
When my mother became ill, he'd told me to focus on family.
“Your talent will still be there when you're ready,” he'd said.
Now I understood that he might have been helping someone steal my work.
Lucas examined the photograph.
“When was this taken?”
Margaret smiled.
“The night Rose Carter died.”
I felt sick.
“Why was he there?”
“You should ask him.”
Lucas picked up his phone.
Margaret's expression tightened.
“Who are you calling?”
“My attorney.”
She laughed bitterly.
“Lucas, don't be ridiculous.”
He ignored her.
Within minutes, he'd contacted an independent corporate attorney named Rebecca Shaw.
He explained the suspicious ownership documents, my design portfolio, and the photograph.
Rebecca advised him to preserve everything and avoid confronting potential witnesses without legal counsel present.
Lucas nodded.
Then he turned to Margaret.
“Until this is investigated, you're suspended from financial operations.”
Her face twisted.
“You can't do that.”
“I can.”
She stared at him.
“You're making a mistake.”
Lucas's voice remained calm.
“Then the documents will prove it.”
Margaret left without another word.
But as the door closed, my phone vibrated.
An unknown number.
Stop asking questions about your mother.
My hands went cold.
A second message appeared.
Or Sophie will never finish nursing school.
I showed Lucas.
His expression changed immediately.
“Where's your sister?”
“At home.”
“Call her.”
I dialed Sophie's number.
No answer.
I called again.
Voicemail.
My heart began pounding.
Lucas contacted hotel security and asked them to coordinate with police.
Then he looked at me.
“Elena, do you have anyone who can check on her?”
“Our neighbor, Mrs. Alvarez.”
I called.
She answered immediately.
“Sweetheart?”
“Can you please knock on our door? Sophie isn't answering.”
A pause.
Then footsteps.
A knock.
Another.
“Elena, honey, the door's open.”
My knees weakened.
“Is Sophie there?”
Mrs. Alvarez entered.
I heard her gasp.
“Oh, dear Lord.”
I gripped the phone.
“What?”
“The apartment's been torn apart.”
My vision blurred.
“And Sophie?”
Silence.
May you like
Then Mrs. Alvarez whispered:
“She's gone, Elena. But someone left a purple silk ribbon tied to her bed.”
