At eight twenty the next morning, I sat in the back seat of an unmarked car across from the bank and watched strangers walk through falling snow.
The safe-deposit key Brooke had photographed was supposed to be in my possession.
It wasn't.
I hadn't seen it in years.
Yet she had somehow kept it close enough to produce within minutes of learning we had found the cabin.
Mercer sat in the front passenger seat, speaking quietly into his phone. Two officers were already inside the bank. Another vehicle waited behind a pharmacy across the intersection.
Rachel had objected to almost every part of the plan.
She was sitting beside me anyway.
"Last chance to become sensible," she said.
"I'm sitting in a police car."
"Your definition of sensible has deteriorated."
"My standards have been unusual since someone tried to steal seven hundred fifty thousand dollars."
Rachel looked toward the bank.
"Fair."
At eight thirty-seven, my phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
You coming?
I showed Mercer.
"Don't answer yet."
Another message arrived.
Don't make me wait.
Brooke sounded impatient.
That was useful.
For days, everyone else had been reacting to her timing.
Now she was waiting on mine.
At eight forty-six, Mercer told me to respond.
Almost there.
Brooke replied immediately.
Alone?
I typed:
Yes.
The lie felt easier than expected.
At eight fifty-three, a dark sedan entered the parking lot.
Every muscle in my body tightened.
The driver remained inside.
A woman stepped from the passenger side wearing a long tan coat and sunglasses despite the gray morning.
Not Brooke.
Rebecca Singh.
Rachel whispered, "There she is."
Rebecca crossed the parking lot quickly.
She carried a leather portfolio.
No purse.
No visible phone.
Mercer spoke into his radio.
Nobody approached her.
Not yet.
"We need to see what she does," he said.
Rebecca entered the bank.
The sedan remained parked.
"Driver?" I asked.
"Can't identify."
"Brooke?"
"Maybe."
I stared through the rear window.
Tinted glass concealed whoever sat inside.
At eight fifty-eight, the sedan drove away.
"She's leaving."
"Another unit has it."
My phone vibrated again.
Brooke:
Go inside.
I looked at Mercer.
He nodded.
Rachel caught my arm.
"Remember what you're doing."
"Walking into a bank."
"Miranda."
I met her eyes.
"I know."
Inside, everything looked painfully ordinary.
A Christmas wreath still hung near the entrance. A teller wished an elderly man a good morning. Somewhere behind the counter, a printer hummed.
Rebecca stood near the private-banking desk.
When she saw me, her face changed.
Not surprise.
Relief.
That wasn't what I expected.
"Miranda."
I stopped several feet away.
"Rebecca."
Her eyes flicked around the lobby.
"You came alone?"
"Did Brooke tell you to ask that?"
Rebecca's relief vanished.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Then why are you here?"
"I need to speak with you."
"About quitting?"
"I didn't quit."
"You emptied your desk."
"Because Brooke told me the police were coming."
"And you believed her."
Rebecca swallowed.
"Yes."
"Why?"
She looked toward the private-banking corridor.
"Can we go somewhere else?"
"No."
"Please."
"No."
Her fingers tightened around the portfolio.
"I have something you need."
"What?"
"Proof."
"Of what?"
"That Brooke was going to blame everything on me."
I almost laughed.
"Everybody suddenly has proof."
"Because everybody finally realized she was going to bury us."
Us.
Not me.
Not them.
Us.
"You helped her."
Rebecca's face tightened.
"I did things."
"You stole from my company."
"I never took what she says I took."
"That's an interesting distinction."
"Miranda, please."
I wanted anger.
Instead, looking at Rebecca, I saw fear.
Real fear.
That did not make her innocent.
It only meant Brooke frightened accomplices too.
"What did you bring?"
Rebecca opened the portfolio.
Mercer had told me not to touch anything she offered.
Inside were printed emails and a small external drive.
"Copies of messages. Vendor records. Some recordings."
"Why didn't you give them to police?"
"Because I don't know who Brooke has talked to."
"You thought bringing them to me at a bank was safer?"
"No."
She looked directly at me.
"Brooke told me you were going to open the box."
My pulse changed.
"Why does she care?"
"She needs the original resolution."
"I know."
Rebecca looked genuinely startled.
"You know?"
"Why does she need it?"
"Not for the transfer."
That answer stopped me.
"What?"
"The seven-fifty transfer is dead. She knows that."
"Then why the resolution?"
Rebecca lowered her voice.
"Because it proves something."
"What?"
"That she was there when Holt Ridge started."
I stared at her.
"Brooke wasn't involved when Holt Ridge started."
"I know."
"Then what are you saying?"
"There's another document."
My skin prickled.
"What document?"
Rebecca looked toward the doors.
"She said the original banking resolution was stored with a handwritten agreement."
I searched my memory.
Nothing.
"What agreement?"
"Between you and someone else."
"Who?"
"Daniel."
The name made no sense.
"I barely knew Daniel three years ago."
Rebecca shook her head.
"Not Daniel Price."
I went still.
"What?"
"Daniel Hale."
For several seconds I couldn't understand the name.
Then a memory surfaced.
An uncle.
My father's younger brother.
Daniel Hale had died nine years earlier.
Before Holt Ridge existed.
Or so everyone believed.
"What does my uncle have to do with this?"
Rebecca stared at me.
"Brooke thinks he gave you the money to start the company."
My throat tightened.
"He didn't."
"Then somebody lied to her."
"Who?"
Rebecca whispered, "Your father."
My phone vibrated.
Brooke.
Open the box.
I didn't respond.
Rebecca's eyes dropped toward my phone.
"She'll know."
"Know what?"
"That I'm talking."
"How?"
Rebecca glanced toward the ceiling.
Then at the leather portfolio.
Her face drained of color.
"Oh God."
"What?"
She opened the portfolio again and tore through the papers.
"What are you doing?"
"She put something in here."
"What?"
"I didn't pack this."
She pulled out a small black device no larger than a coin.
A tracker.
Maybe more.
Rebecca dropped it.
Two officers moved immediately.
Mercer emerged from a corridor.
Rebecca froze.
"No."
"Rebecca Singh," Mercer said, "keep your hands where I can see them."
She began crying.
"I came to help."
"Then helping just became easier."
Outside, tires squealed.
I turned toward the windows.
A dark SUV shot from the side street.
Not the sedan that had dropped Rebecca.
Another vehicle.
Mercer's radio erupted.
The SUV accelerated through the intersection.
One police unit followed.
My phone vibrated.
Brooke:
You lied.
Then:
You brought them.
A third:
Ask Dad about Daniel Hale before you decide I'm the only liar in this family.
I stared at the screen.
Mercer took the phone.
"Don't answer."
I looked at Rebecca.
Officers were searching the portfolio.
"Was Brooke in that SUV?"
Rebecca shook her head frantically.
"I don't know."
"Who gave you the portfolio?"
"Brooke."
"When?"
"This morning."
"Where?"
"She picked me up."
"Where is she?"
"I don't know."
"Rebecca."
"I swear."
Mercer asked, "Who drove the sedan?"
Rebecca hesitated.
"Daniel."
My heart jumped.
"Price?"
"Yes."
"He's in the hospital."
She shook her head.
"No."
Mercer stared at her.
"Daniel Price was in intensive care yesterday."
"Then someone lied to you."
Mercer was already calling.
The answer came within minutes.
Daniel Price was still hospitalized.
Under guard.
Rebecca's driver could not have been him.
"Describe the man."
She did.
Mid-fifties.
Dark hair turning gray.
Scar near the left eyebrow.
Tall.
Walked with a slight limp.
My skin went cold.
I had seen that face.
Not recently.
In photographs.
At family Christmases when I was young.
At the cabin.
Standing beside Dad.
"No," I whispered.
Rachel looked at me.
"What?"
I couldn't answer.
The description matched a dead man.
My uncle Daniel Hale.
Mercer heard me.
"You know him?"
"He died."
"When?"
"Nine years ago."
"How?"
"Car accident."
Rebecca stared.
"No."
Every head turned toward her.
She whispered, "That man isn't dead."
I stepped closer.
"How do you know?"
"Because Brooke calls him Uncle Dan."
The bank lobby seemed to disappear.
My father had hidden the cabin.
He had hidden the payment to Daniel Price.
He had hidden Brooke's earlier fraud.
Now Brooke was telling me to ask about his supposedly dead brother.
I called Dad.
He answered on the second ring.
"Miranda?"
"Is Uncle Daniel alive?"
Nothing.
Not confusion.
Not shock.
Silence.
I closed my eyes.
"Dad."
His breathing changed.
"Where did you hear that?"
The question answered mine.
Rachel looked at me.
I whispered, "He's alive."
Dad said my name.
I cut him off.
"Nine years."
"Miranda, I can explain."
"You let us believe your brother was dead for nine years."
"It wasn't that simple."
"It is exactly that simple."
"No."
"Then make it complicated."
He remained silent.
I looked through the bank windows at the snow.
"Was he driving Rebecca this morning?"
"I don't know."
"Does Brooke know him?"
"Yes."
"How long?"
"Years."
My knees weakened.
"Did he give me money to start Holt Ridge?"
Dad inhaled sharply.
"Who told you that?"
"Answer."
"No."
"Did he have anything to do with Holt Ridge?"
Another pause.
"Indirectly."
I almost shouted.
"What does that mean?"
"He owned land."
"What land?"
"The first property you developed."
I stopped.
Holt Ridge's first successful project had been a neglected four-unit property outside Asheville.
I bought it through an estate sale.
At least I thought I had.
"Daniel owned Hawthorne?"
"Part of it."
"Why didn't I know?"
"Because he couldn't own it publicly."
"Why?"
Dad's voice dropped.
"Because Daniel didn't die in an accident."
I closed my eyes.
"What happened?"
"He disappeared."
"Why?"
"Financial crimes."
The answer rearranged everything.
My uncle.
Brooke.
Old documents.
The earliest fraud.
Daniel Price's comment about things he had done before meeting Brooke.
Two Daniels.
Two histories.
"Was Uncle Daniel involved with Daniel Price?"
"I don't know."
"You're lying."
"I'm not."
"Then why did Brooke know him?"
Dad's voice broke.
"Because I introduced them."
I felt physically sick.
"When?"
"Three years ago."
Exactly when everything began.
"Why?"
"Brooke came to me with debt. She was desperate. I thought Daniel could help her restructure it."
"Your fugitive brother?"
"He knew finance."
I laughed in disbelief.
"You sent Brooke to a man who disappeared because of financial crimes."
"I thought he'd changed."
"Where is he?"
"I don't know."
"Does Mom know he's alive?"
"No."
That somehow made it worse.
"What about the cabin?"
Dad hesitated.
"He used it."
The safe house wasn't Brooke's originally.
It was Daniel Hale's.
Brooke had inherited more than access.
She had inherited a teacher.
I ended the call before Dad finished explaining.
Mercer looked at me.
"We need everything your father knows."
"He'll tell you."
"How confident are you?"
I looked at the phone.
"Not very."
An officer approached Mercer.
"The SUV was found."
"Where?"
"Abandoned three miles north."
"Occupants?"
"Gone."
"Anything inside?"
The officer looked at me.
"An old photograph."
"Of what?"
"Two men."
He showed us the image sent from the scene.
My father stood beside his brother Daniel.
Between them was a much younger Daniel Price.
On the back, handwritten in blue ink, were four words:
Before Brooke knew anything.
Click here to continue reading: PART 14: My Father’s Dead Brother Had Been Alive for Nine Years, and Brooke Learned Her Most Dangerous Lessons From Him
My Parents Canceled Christmas With One Short Message, and I Finally Stopped Asking Them to Choose Me
Part 13 of 40
