Mark looked terrible.
His shirt was wrinkled, his eyes red, and there was dried rainwater on his jacket.
Ortiz kept him outside until officers searched him.
Then he entered the workshop.
I remained near Dad's desk.
“Why did you come here?”
Mark looked at me.
“Because I made things worse.”
“That doesn't answer me.”
“I know.”
“Where is Peter?”
“Massachusetts.”
My heart tightened.
“Where?”
“Your father's old property.”
“The house?”
“No.”
“The company?”
“Neither.”
Mark took a folded map from his pocket.
He placed it on the desk.
A red circle marked a location several miles away.
I recognized it.
An abandoned warehouse Dad had once used for equipment storage.
“Why would Peter be there?”
“Because that's where Evelyn kept the original files.”
Richard stepped forward.
“Evelyn is dead.”
“The files aren't.”
Mark looked at him.
“You knew about them.”
Richard's face hardened.
“I knew she kept records.”
“Then you know what Peter wants.”
Richard shook his head.
“No.”
Mark looked at me.
“He wants the proof that Clare's trust belongs to him.”
I frowned.
“That isn't possible.”
“He doesn't care whether it's possible.”
Mark explained that Peter had spent years building a case around the old partnership dispute. He had forged documents suggesting Dad had manipulated Richard's ownership and hidden assets inside my trust.
If the court accepted those documents, Peter could force the estate into litigation.
“And if he wins?”
Mark looked at me.
“He gets control of the investment structure.”
“And you?”
“I get nothing.”
“Then why did you help him?”
Mark lowered his eyes.
“Because he promised me he would leave you alone.”
The room went silent.
I laughed once.
“You believed him?”
“I wanted to.”
“That isn't an excuse.”
“I know.”
“Did Peter threaten me?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Before Dad died.”
My stomach tightened.
“What did he threaten?”
“He said if I didn't cooperate, he'd expose everything.”
“Everything about what?”
“Your father.”
I waited.
Mark swallowed.
“He said he had proof that Dad had arranged Richard's disappearance.”
I stared at him.
“You believed that?”
“At first.”
“And then?”
“I found out it was false.”
“When?”
“After I entered your father's study.”
I looked at the brown folder.
“What did you find?”
“The original records.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because I was ashamed.”
“That didn't stop you from forging my signature.”
He closed his eyes.
“No.”
I turned away.
There was no clean way to describe what I felt.
Anger.
Grief.
Disgust.
And something else I didn't want to name.
A small part of me still remembered the man who used to bring coffee to my bedside on Sunday mornings.
The man who knew I hated loud restaurants.
The man who had once spent six hours assembling a bookshelf because I had mentioned wanting one.
That man seemed impossibly far away.
Ortiz interrupted.
“Tell us about the night Walter died.”
Mark looked at her.
“I went to the hospital because Peter told me Walter was going to change the trust.”
“When?”
“8:20.”
“Why?”
“To make him sign.”
“He was unconscious.”
“I know.”
“Did you touch the ventilator?”
Mark nodded.
“Why?”
“I wanted the nurses to come in.”
“That makes no sense.”
“I was panicking.”
“What happened after?”
“Diane came in.”
I looked at him.
“Why?”
“She told me to leave.”
“Did she touch anything?”
“No.”
“Did Peter come?”
“No.”
“Who else?”
Mark hesitated.
“A man.”
“What man?”
“I don't know.”
“Describe him.”
“Gray hair. Tall. Thin.”
Richard went pale.
“That was Peter.”
Mark shook his head.
“No.”
“Then who?”
Mark looked at me.
“I think it was someone working for him.”
Ortiz asked, “What did he do?”
“He gave Diane an envelope.”
“What was inside?”
“I don't know.”
“Did Diane give him anything?”
Mark nodded.
“A key.”
I remembered the brass key.
“Which key?”
“The one to your father's workshop.”
I looked at Samuel.
Dad had known.
Someone had tried to get into the workshop before his death.
But the key had remained hidden.
“Why didn't they find it?”
Mark answered.
“Because Walter moved it.”
“When?”
“Earlier that day.”
I looked at him.
“How do you know?”
“He told me.”
My breath caught.
“Dad spoke to you that day?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
Mark's face crumpled.
“He told me he knew.”
“Knew what?”
“Everything.”
My voice became quiet.
“What did he tell you?”
“He said I had one chance to walk away.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I thought I could fix it.”
“You couldn't.”
“No.”
Ortiz stepped closer.
“Where is Peter now?”
Mark pointed to the map.
“He'll be at the warehouse tonight.”
“Why?”
“Because that's where the last file is.”
“What file?”
“The one proving who really forged the original partnership documents.”
Richard looked at him.
“Evelyn?”
Mark shook his head.
“Someone else.”
I felt the room tighten.
“Who?”
Mark looked directly at me.
“Diane.”
My mother-in-law's name sounded almost unreal.
“Diane forged them?”
“Yes.”
Richard stared at him.
“Why?”
“Because Evelyn ordered her to.”
I turned toward Richard.
“Your sister controlled Diane?”
“Apparently.”
Mark explained that Evelyn had manipulated Diane for years.
She convinced Diane that Richard was stealing from the family.
She then convinced her to forge records.
Eventually, Diane realized she had been used.
By then, the damage was done.
“She tried to fix it,” Mark said.
“How?”
“She told Walter.”
“And Dad?”
“He helped her.”
I remembered Dad's letter.
The strange kindness toward Mark.
The warning.
The trust.
Perhaps Dad had been trying to protect everyone at once.
“Why did Diane help Peter later?”
Mark shook his head.
“She didn't know who he really was.”
“What do you mean?”
“He told her he was working for the family.”
“He was.”
“No.”
Mark looked at Richard.
“Peter is not Evelyn's son.”
Richard stared at him.
“What?”
“Evelyn had no son.”
My heart stopped.
“But you told me—”
“I was wrong.”
Mark pulled another photograph from his pocket.
A young man stood beside Evelyn.
On the back was a name.
Jonathan Price.
“Who is he?” I asked.
Richard stared at the photograph.
“My sister's attorney.”
Mark nodded.
“Peter Bell doesn't exist.”
Silence.
“Then who is Peter?”
Mark looked at me.
“Jonathan Price.”
Ortiz immediately took the photograph.
“How do you know?”
“Because I met him.”
“When?”
“Last month.”
“And he admitted it?”
“No.”
Mark reached into his pocket.
He pulled out a small voice recorder.
“I recorded him.”
Ortiz played it.
A man's voice filled the room.
Jonathan.
He spoke about the trust.
About the warehouse.
About the ledger.
Then he said something that made my blood run cold.
“Once Clare signs, the rest is easy.”
The recording ended.
I looked at Mark.
“What was I supposed to sign?”
“I don't know.”
“Then why bring me here?”
“Because he told me you would come.”
I stared at him.
“He expected me to follow you.”
Mark nodded.
“And if I hadn't?”
“He would have found another way.”
Ortiz looked at the map.
“We're not going tonight.”
Mark shook his head.
“You don't understand.”
“What?”
“Jonathan already knows we found the trust.”
He pulled out his phone.
A message had arrived.
One photograph.
My house.
Taken from across the street.
Under it:
You have until midnight.
I felt cold all over.
Ortiz looked at the photograph.
“That's not a threat.”
“What is it?”
“A demonstration.”
I looked toward the window.
Someone had been watching my home.
And suddenly Dad's final warning made sense.
He hadn't been protecting money.
He had been protecting me.
Click here to continue reading: PART 11: The Final Meeting Took Place Where Dad Had Built His First Workshop, and the Truth About His Last Night Changed Everything
My Father Was Barely Buried When My Husband Started Spending Money That Had Not Even Reached My Hands
Part 10 of 12
