Chapter 4: The Father Who Was Supposed to Be Dead
I stared at the photograph until the edges blurred.
My father.
James Carter.
The man who had supposedly died in a car accident when I was twelve years old.
The man whose funeral I remembered in fragments.
The man whose old watch I still kept in a drawer beside my bed.
Alive.
Photographed six months earlier.
Standing outside a building in Charlotte, North Carolina.
I looked at Richard.
"Where did you get this?""
He closed the folder.
"From Daniel's personal files.""
"That's impossible.""
"I'm afraid it isn't.""
"My father is dead.""
Richard's expression softened.
"Ms. Carter—"
"Don't call me that.""
My voice sounded strange.
Too loud.
Too thin.
I took another step toward him.
"Tell me where this picture came from.""
Marcus raised one hand.
"Richard, answer her.""
The attorney opened the folder again.
"Daniel had been looking into financial transactions connected to Whitmore Holdings. During that investigation, he discovered a man using the name James Carter.""
I shook my head.
"My father wasn't involved with your company.""
"Apparently, he was.""
"How?""
Richard hesitated.
Then he said, "Your father worked for the Whitmore family before his reported death.""
I felt the room tilt.
My father had been an accountant.
At least, that was what my mother had told us.
He used to leave home early, return late, and spend long evenings sitting at the kitchen table with stacks of paperwork.
Sometimes, when I woke during the night, I would find him standing by the window, looking at the street.
He always told me the same thing.
"Some things are better left alone, sweetheart.""
I had never understood what he meant.
Until now.
Marcus pulled out a chair.
"Sit down, Nia.""
I didn't move.
"Was my father working for your family?""
Richard nodded.
"Yes.""
"Doing what?""
"Financial management.""
"Then why did we never hear from you after he died?""
Richard looked uncomfortable.
"Because your father's death was reported as an accident.""
"By whom?""
He didn't answer.
I understood then that someone had lied.
Someone had allowed my mother to bury an empty coffin, perhaps.
Someone had watched two little girls grow up believing their father was gone.
My phone vibrated.
Tasha.
I answered immediately.
"Nia?""
Her voice was shaking.
"What's wrong?""
"Mom called me.""
My stomach tightened.
"Our mother?""
"Yes. She wants to see you.""
"Why?""
Tasha went quiet.
Then she whispered, "She said Dad is alive.""
The phone nearly slipped from my hand.
I looked at Marcus.
He had heard enough to understand.
"Where is she?"" I asked.
"At home.""
"Did she explain?""
"No. She said she was afraid someone was listening.""
I closed my eyes.
"Don't leave the apartment.""
"Nia, what's happening?""
"I'll explain when I get there.""
After ending the call, I turned toward Richard.
"I need to go home.""
Marcus nodded.
"I'll have security take you.""
"No.""
He frowned.
"Why not?""
"I don't want to arrive at my apartment in a convoy of black cars. My neighbors already think I work for people who own the moon.""
Despite everything, Marcus almost smiled.
Then he became serious again.
"Someone connected to your father has already killed Daniel. You're not going alone.""
I wanted to argue.
But I remembered the photograph.
And the dead man beside the drainage channel.
"Fine.""
Marcus instructed Paul to arrange an unmarked vehicle.
Before we left, Richard stopped him.
"There's something else.""
Marcus turned.
"What now?""
Richard removed a folded document.
"The original trust agreement. Your mother signed it last night, but one page is missing.""
"Which page?""
"The beneficiary schedule.""
Marcus frowned.
"Why does that matter?""
"Because it identifies the people who would inherit control if your mother became incapacitated.""
I looked at the attorney.
"Who would inherit?""
Richard hesitated.
"Your mother changed the original arrangement.""
Marcus's voice became cold.
"Who?""
Richard looked down at the document.
"Your wife, Olivia.""
Silence.
Marcus stared at him.
"That's impossible.""
"She was named as the primary successor in the earlier draft.""
"Earlier draft?""
Richard nodded.
"Before your mother discovered the missing money.""
Marcus grabbed the document.
"Who prepared that draft?""
Richard answered quietly.
"I did.""
Marcus looked at him for several seconds.
Then he stepped back.
"Get out of my sight.""
Richard closed his briefcase.
"Marcus, please understand—"
"Leave.""
The attorney walked out.
I watched him go.
Something about his reaction bothered me.
He hadn't looked surprised when he revealed Olivia's name.
He had looked afraid.
The drive to my apartment took thirty-five minutes.
Atlanta's evening traffic was thick, and rain had begun tapping against the windshield.
Marcus sat beside me in the back seat.
Neither of us spoke much.
Finally, he asked, "What was your father like?""
I looked out the window.
"He used to make pancakes every Sunday.""
Marcus glanced at me.
"Really?""
"Terrible ones. They were always too thick.""
A faint smile crossed my face.
"He let me help, though. He'd put flour on my nose and tell me I was the world's youngest chef.""
I swallowed.
"After he died, my mother stopped making pancakes.""
Marcus looked down.
"My father died twelve years ago.""
"I'm sorry.""
"He was a difficult man.""
I turned toward him.
"Did you love him?""
Marcus considered the question.
"I thought I did.""
The car stopped outside my apartment building.
It was an old brick building with a broken security light and a narrow staircase.
I hurried upstairs.
Tasha opened the door before I could knock.
She threw her arms around me.
"You're okay!""
"I'm okay.""
Then I saw my mother.
Elaine Carter was sitting at the kitchen table.
Her hands were wrapped around a cup of tea.
She looked older than I remembered from that morning.
Beside her sat a man.
A man with graying hair.
A familiar jawline.
And the same small scar above his left eyebrow that appeared in every childhood photograph I owned.
My father.
James Carter.
Alive.
He stood slowly.
"Nia.""
I couldn't breathe.
Tasha began crying.
My mother lowered her head.
And my father took one step toward me.
"Sweetheart, I can explain.""
I stared at him.
Then I slapped him.
The sound echoed through the small apartment.
"Explain what?"" I screamed.
"Explain why we buried you? Explain why Mom cried every night? Explain why Tasha grew up without a father?""
His eyes filled with tears.
"I had no choice.""
"Everyone has a choice!""
He looked at Marcus.
Then his expression changed.
"You shouldn't have brought him here.""
Marcus stepped forward.
"Why?""
My father backed away.
"Because if they know you've found me, they'll come tonight.""
My mother began sobbing.
I turned toward her.
"Mom, what is he talking about?""
She looked at me.
Then she said something I never expected.
"Your father didn't fake his death to protect himself.""
She reached for my hand.
"He faked his death to protect you.""
My father closed his eyes.
And from somewhere outside the apartment, a car door slammed.
Then another.
My father rushed toward the window.
May you like
His face went white.
"They found us.""
