We did not sleep that night.
Michael sat at the kitchen table.
I sat opposite him.
The old photograph remained between us.
“Tell me everything you remember about your father before the accident,” I said.
Michael stared at the photograph.
“He was distant.”
“How distant?”
“More than usual.”
“Did you notice anything strange?”
He thought for a long time.
“He started making phone calls outside.”
“To whom?”
“I don't know.”
“Did your mother know?”
“I think she suspected something.”
The pieces were beginning to form.
Not a complete picture.
But enough to make me uneasy.
The next morning, we returned to the police station.
The investigator showed us surveillance footage from the street near the workshop.
The image was poor.
But the man's shape was visible.
He had entered shortly before midnight.
He knew where the cameras were.
He had covered his face.
“He planned this,” the investigator said.
Michael nodded.
“Why?”
“We don't know.”
The investigator paused.
“Do you?”
Michael looked at me.
Then back at him.
“There may be documents about my father's estate.”
“Estate?”
“My father had another property.”
The investigator frowned.
“Where?”
“I'm not sure.”
Michael had never known.
But Catherine might.
We went to her house.
She looked frightened when we told her.
“Show me the photograph.”
Michael handed it to her.
Her face changed immediately.
“You know him.”
“Yes.”
“Who is he?”
She sat down.
“He worked for your father.”
“Doing what?”
“Managing his business accounts.”
Michael stared.
“My father had business accounts?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“I don't know.”
“Mother.”
She closed her eyes.
“Enough.”
The room fell silent.
Michael looked at me.
I could see the old anger returning.
Not toward Catherine.
Toward the years of silence.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because I was afraid.”
“Of what?”
“That the money would become another weapon.”
“What money?”
Catherine swallowed.
“Your father had set aside money for you.”
Michael froze.
“For me?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
She gave him an amount.
He stared.
The figure was large enough to change several lives.
“But where is it?”
Catherine looked down.
“I don't know.”
Michael understood.
The missing documents.
The break-in.
The old business manager.
The warning.
It all pointed toward the same thing.
Someone believed Michael could locate the money.
The investigator was informed.
They began tracing old financial records.
That process took days.
During those days, Michael became restless.
He hated not knowing.
I tried to keep life normal.
We cooked.
We ate.
We watched television.
We went to the workshop.
But the shadow remained.
One evening, Michael asked me something.
“If we found the money, would you want it?”
I looked at him.
“I don't know.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don't know what it represents.”
He nodded.
“Neither do I.”
The next morning, a package arrived.
There was no return address.
Inside was a single envelope.
Michael opened it.
A photocopy of an old bank statement.
The account belonged to his father.
The balance was enormous.
At the bottom was a handwritten note.
He never meant for you to have this.
Michael read it twice.
Then he looked at me.
“Someone wants me to believe my father betrayed me.”
“Maybe he did.”
“Yes.”
“But maybe someone wants you angry enough to make a mistake.”
Michael nodded.
That was the problem.
The truth could be manipulated.
The investigator advised us not to contact anyone.
We followed his advice.
Then Catherine disappeared.
She had gone to the pharmacy.
She never arrived.
Michael called her phone.
No answer.
We contacted the police immediately.
The search began.
Hours passed.
I had never seen Michael so frightened.
He blamed himself.
“I should have protected her.”
“You didn't know.”
“I should have known.”
“No.”
He paced.
His leg began hurting.
I took his arm.
“Sit.”
“I can't.”
“You can.”
He looked at me.
Then finally sat.
The phone rang.
A voice spoke.
It was distorted.
“Stop looking.”
Michael stood.
“Where is my mother?”
“You know what we want.”
“What?”
“The papers.”
“They're gone.”
“Then find them.”
“Where is she?”
A pause.
Then a location.
The call ended.
We drove there with the police.
Catherine was inside an empty building.
She was frightened but unharmed.
Michael ran toward her.
She held him tightly.
“I knew you would come.”
He closed his eyes.
“I thought I'd lost you.”
She pulled back.
“I need to tell you something.”
“What?”
“Your father didn't leave the money.”
Michael stared.
“What?”
“He gave it away.”
“To whom?”
Catherine looked at me.
Then at Michael.
“To someone who needed it.”
Michael's expression changed.
“Who?”
She whispered the name.
I recognized it.
So did Michael.
It belonged to the same girl whose operation he had funded years earlier.
The girl whose father had caused the accident.
Michael stepped backward.
“No.”
Catherine nodded.
“Your father knew.”
“Knew what?”
“That the man's daughter was sick.”
Michael stared at her.
His father had known.
Before the accident.
Before everything.
And the money had been intended for her.
The truth changed the entire story.
Michael looked at me.
His eyes were wet.
“My father wasn't running away.”
I shook my head slowly.
“He was trying to help her.”
“But why hide it?”
Catherine's answer was quiet.
“Because he knew no one would understand.”
Michael closed his eyes.
The man he had spent decades trying to forgive had just become more complicated.
Not innocent.
Not entirely guilty.
Human.
The investigator approached.
“We found the missing documents.”
Michael turned.
“Where?”
“In the building.”
The papers were hidden behind a loose wall panel.
The mystery was finally opening.
But one question remained.
Who had brought us there?
The answer was waiting inside the final document.
Click Here to continue read next: PART15: The Last Document Changed Nothing About the Pain, Yet It Changed the Meaning of Almost Everything Michael Had Spent His Life Believing
At Forty, I Had Stopped Expecting Love to Knock, So When My Mother Offered Michael, I Made a Choice I Thought Would Cost Me Nothing
Part 14 of 16
