Chapter 4 - The Dead Man's Secrets
I arrived home just as the sun began to peek over the horizon, painting the sky in bruises of purple and gray.
The house was eerily silent. Evan’s sports car was parked haphazardly in the circular driveway, a testament to his arrogant comfort. I ignored it and walked carefully, painfully, through the front doors.
I bypassed the grand staircase, unable to look at the dark stain on the rug, and took the private elevator up to the second floor.
I didn't go to my bedroom. Instead, I walked to the end of the hall, stopping before the heavy oak door of Richard's old study. It had been locked since the day he died.
I pulled a brass key from a chain around my neck, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.
The room smelled of old leather, cedar wood, and the faint, lingering scent of Richard's pipe tobacco. Dust motes danced in the morning light filtering through the heavy drapes.
I walked past his imposing mahogany desk and approached the oil portrait of Richard hanging on the back wall. Behind it lay a concealed steel wall safe.
I punched in the code—my birthday—and the heavy metal door clicked open.
Inside sat a single, thick manila folder. Evan had spent the last three months searching this house for accounts, passwords, and cash, but he never knew this file existed.
I pulled it out and sat in Richard's leather chair, turning on the brass reading lamp.
The file contained signed trust provisions, private loan records, and comprehensive security reports. But resting on top was a sealed envelope, the handwriting unmistakable.
FOR EVAN, IF HE EVER BECOMES THE MAN I FEAR.
My hands trembled as I broke the seal. Inside was a single sheet of paper, written shortly before Richard's death.
Evan, if your mother is handing you this letter, it means my worst fears have materialized. I built this empire with sweat, blood, and integrity. You have shown none of those traits. I knew about the embezzlement. I knew about the offshore gambling accounts. I kept quiet to spare your mother's heart, hoping you would grow out of this sickness. But if you are reading this, you haven't. You are hereby cut off. May God have mercy on you, because the world will not.
Tears pricked my eyes, not for Evan, but for Richard. He had carried this burden alone to protect me.
Beneath the letter rested a small, black digital recorder.
Richard had installed hidden microphones in the corporate offices after Evan’s first suspected theft from the company five years ago. I knew the cloud archive had never been disconnected, but I had never dared to listen to it.
I pressed play.
Static hissed, followed by the sound of Evan's voice, younger but just as cruel. He was speaking to someone—a bookie, judging by the context.
"...don't worry about the old man. The cancer is eating him alive. He'll be dead in six months, and the moment he's in the ground, I'm liquidating the whole logistics division. I'll have your money. Just keep the juice running."
I stopped the recording.
The last fragile thread of maternal mercy snapped, dissolving into dust.
He hadn't just stolen money. He had calculated his father's death like a payout on a roulette wheel.
May you like
I closed the file, locked the safe, and stood up. The pain in my ribs was entirely gone, replaced by a burning, furious energy.
It was time to cook.
