Chapter 3 - THE MAN OUTSIDE OUR APARTMENT
I reached home with police already downstairs.
Not Ravi’s men.
Police.
That had been my condition.
Ravi followed anyway.
From a distance.
For once, I did not mind.
The man outside our apartment was gone.
Sadi ran into my arms.
I held her so tightly she complained.
“Can’t breathe.”
“Sorry.”
She pulled back.
Her crooked teeth showed when she frowned.
I loved them suddenly.
Every one.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
“What did he look like?”
“Old.”
“That is not useful.”
“Like forty.”
Ravi coughed behind me.
I looked at him.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Sadi pointed.
“Who’s that?”
I closed my eyes.
“This is Ravi.”
“The mafia guy?”
Apparently ten-year-olds had no diplomacy.
Ravi looked almost amused.
“Allegedly.”
Sadi narrowed her eyes.
“You look like one.”
I almost laughed for the first time all night.
Then the police officer asked about the key.
I opened the kitchen drawer.
There it was.
Brass.
Rectangular head.
One stamped number:
417
Ravi recognized it.
“Union Federal.”
“What?”
“Private deposit boxes.”
The bank had closed years ago.
Records transferred to Lakeshore Trust.
The next morning, with my attorney present, we opened box 417.
Inside:
A flash drive.
A handwritten journal.
And two envelopes.
One for me.
One for Sadi.
I opened mine first.
Diane,
If you are reading this, then I was right to be afraid.
My eyes blurred.
Dad continued:
Do not trust anyone who says I stole money.
I looked at Ravi.
He said nothing.
I moved funds because someone inside the foundation was using children’s medical accounts to wash illegal money.
My stomach turned.
The stolen money is not Ravi’s.
Ravi’s jaw tightened.
He doesn’t know.
Then:
Patrick Voss does.
There it was.
Catherine’s father.
Dad had discovered Patrick using fake patient accounts to move millions through Ravi’s legitimate charity network.
He planned to expose it.
Then the crash happened.
The journal documented everything.
Dates.
Transfers.
Names.
But one page had been torn out.
The final evidence.
Missing.
Ravi asked:
“What was on it?”
I did not know.
Then Sadi opened her envelope.
Inside was not a letter.
It was a photograph.
My father kneeling beside Sadi when she was six.
Behind them stood another man.
Patrick Voss.
Sadi stared.
“I know him.”
I froze.
“From where?”
She pointed at Patrick.
“He came to our apartment after Mom and Dad died.”
My heart stopped.
“What?”
“I thought he was Dad’s friend.”
I looked at her.
“You never told me.”
“You were crying all the time.”
That hurt.
“What did he want?”
Sadi thought.
“He asked where Dad kept his blue notebook.”
The journal in my hands was blue.
Then she added:
“I lied.”
Everyone looked at her.
“What did you say?”
“I told him Dad burned it.”
I stared.
“Why?”
Sadi shrugged.
“Dad told me never to tell strangers where important things were.”
Ten years old.
Braver than adults.
Then she pointed to the photograph.
“Patrick had something in his hand.”
We enlarged it.
A folded paper.
The missing journal page.
Patrick had taken it years ago.
And the bottom corner contained one visible line:
May you like
R.G. MUST NEVER KNOW HIS BROTHER IS INVOLVED.
Ravi stopped breathing.
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