Chapter 6 - The Visit After the Funeral
My mother had been keeping a secret for fifteen years.
And it was destroying her.
"Mom," I whispered. "What do you mean you saw Dad after his funeral?"
Helen Carter began crying.
I moved closer.
"Please tell me."
She gripped my hand.
"Three weeks after the funeral, Samuel came to the apartment."
My chest tightened.
"Dr. Price?"
She nodded.
"He said Thomas was still alive."
I stared.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because Samuel said he'd kill you if I did."
The room went silent.
My mother covered her face.
"He took me to a private medical facility. Thomas was lying in a bed. He was weak. He could barely speak."
I felt tears burning my eyes.
"Did Dad recognize you?"
She nodded.
"He held my hand."
Her voice broke.
"And he told me to protect you."
I couldn't breathe.
"What happened afterward?"
"Samuel said Thomas had information Richard Morgan wanted. He told me that if Thomas cooperated, they would let him come home."
"Did Dad cooperate?"
Mom shook her head.
"He refused."
I closed my eyes.
Of course he did.
My father had always been stubborn about doing the right thing.
"What happened to him?"
Helen began sobbing.
"I never saw him again."
I hugged her.
For a long time, we cried together.
Then Mom whispered, "There's something else."
I pulled back.
"What?"
"Thomas gave me a message."
"What message?"
She looked toward the hallway.
Then lowered her voice.
"Tell Emma the red folder is where the music stopped."
I frowned.
"Where the music stopped?"
Mom nodded.
"He made me promise."
I searched my memory.
Music.
My father loved old jazz records.
He used to play them every Sunday.
Then I remembered.
The record player.
After Dad died, Mom stopped listening to music.
She sold almost everything.
But one thing remained.
The old wooden cabinet in our living room.
I hurried toward it.
The record player hadn't worked in years.
I lifted the lid.
Dust covered the turntable.
Then I noticed a loose panel beneath the cabinet.
I pulled it open.
Inside was a red folder.
My hands began trembling.
I carried it to the table.
Inside were financial records, inspection reports, photographs, and handwritten notes.
Most of it meant nothing to me.
But one document caught my attention.
A list of payments.
Millions of dollars.
Transferred through companies connected to Richard Morgan.
Then I saw another name.
Samuel Price.
And beneath it, a signature.
Vincent Morgan.
My heart sank.
I stared at the page.
Vincent had claimed he didn't know about Richard's crimes.
Yet his signature appeared on the transfers.
I grabbed my phone.
Before I could call him, it vibrated.
A message from an unknown number.
Don't believe Morgan's story.
Another message arrived.
This one contained a photograph.
Vincent standing beside Samuel Price.
The photograph was dated the same night my father disappeared.
Then came the final message.
May you like
Vincent didn't discover the crime.
He financed it.
