Chapter 3 - THE WOMAN WHO VANISHED SIX MONTHS LATER
Elena Whitmore was not dead.
At least there was no death certificate.
She vanished.
No funeral.
No body.
No confirmed sighting.
Vanessa had been nineteen.
Her father told her Elena ran away with someone.
Vanessa never believed him.
“Why would you blame me?” I asked.
“I didn’t.”
“Then what was all this?”
The gloves.
The insults.
The repeated deliveries.
The cake.
The slap.
Vanessa looked ashamed for the first time.
“I thought you knew something.”
“I was nineteen when my father died.”
“You were there the week before.”
“At home.”
“She called your house.”
I frowned.
“What?”
Vanessa had found old phone records.
Elena called our landline three times during the week after my father’s death.
Mom answered twice.
The third call lasted fourteen minutes.
“That doesn’t mean I talked to her.”
“You did.”
“How do you know?”
Vanessa pulled out another item.
A tiny digital recorder.
Old.
Scratched.
“My mother kept everything.”
She played a file.
Static.
Then my own younger voice.
Nineteen-year-old me.
“I don’t know where Dad put it.”
My knees nearly gave out.
I remembered.
Not Elena.
A woman had called.
Said she worked with Dad.
Asked whether he left a key.
I had been grieving.
Angry.
Suspicious.
I told her I knew nothing.
Then the recording continued.
Elena:
“Avery, if you find a blue notebook, don’t show anyone.”
Me:
“What notebook?”
Elena:
“Your father copied the route numbers.”
Then my mother came into the room.
I hung up.
I had forgotten the call completely.
“You recorded me?”
“My mother recorded all calls after James died.”
“Why?”
“Because she was scared.”
Dominic listened silently.
Then asked Vanessa:
“Where did you get this?”
“Her storage unit.”
“You told me it was empty.”
“I lied.”
Dominic’s face hardened.
Of course there were layers between them too.
“What else was inside?”
Vanessa did not answer.
I stepped closer.
“What else?”
She looked at me.
“A ledger.”
My pulse jumped.
“Blue?”
“Yes.”
My father’s notebook.
Vanessa had it.
“Where?”
“Not here.”
I laughed in disbelief.
“You spent seven weeks treating me like garbage while holding my father’s evidence?”
Her eyes filled.
“I thought you knew where the other half was.”
“What other half?”
The blue ledger stopped halfway through.
Pages removed.
The remaining section contained route numbers, vendor payments, container IDs, and names represented only by initials.
One repeated code:
M13.
Dominic’s expression changed.
“What?”
I noticed.
“What does M13 mean?”
He said nothing.
Vanessa answered.
“Moretti account thirteen.”
Dominic looked at her.
“You don’t know that.”
“I know enough.”
Apparently Moretti family holdings historically used numbered internal trusts.
M13 had been controlled by Dominic’s uncle.
Victor Moretti.
Anthony’s younger brother.
Retired.
Living in Naples, Florida.
Vanessa believed Victor was tied to the theft.
Dominic disagreed.
Why?
“Because M13 closed before James died.”
Vanessa laughed.
“Officially.”
Another paper came out of her purse.
A wire transfer.
Three days before my father’s death.
$2.8 million.
From Marlowe Logistics.
To:
M13 CONSULTING.
Dominic stared.
“That account was closed.”
“Then who received the money?”
No answer.
I felt my whole understanding of my father’s death collapsing.
Then Dominic’s phone rang.
Security.
He answered.
His face changed.
“What?”
Pause.
“When?”
He looked at me.
Then Vanessa.
“My exterior cameras caught a car parked across the road.”
“Who?”
“Unknown.”
“Problem?”
He showed us a still image.
Black sedan.
Driver partially visible.
Vanessa went white.
“No.”
“What?”
She grabbed the phone.
“That’s my father.”
Her father, William Whitmore.
The man who told her Elena ran away.
“What is he doing here?” Dominic asked.
Vanessa looked terrified.
“He doesn’t know I found the storage unit.”
Before anyone could move, Dominic’s security chief entered.
“Sir.”
“What?”
“The vehicle left.”
“Follow it.”
“Already trying.”
Then he looked at me.
“There’s another issue.”
“What?”
“Someone accessed the east gate ten minutes ago using an old Moretti family credential.”
Dominic frowned.
“Whose?”
The guard hesitated.
“Victor Moretti.”
May you like
Dominic’s supposedly retired uncle.
And suddenly the old code M13 felt much less dead.
