Chapter 4 - The Password He Thought I Didn't Know
“That's ridiculous.”
Ethan's denial came too quickly.
Martin did not argue.
He opened his laptop and rotated it toward me.
A security notification filled the screen.
The trust company's alert identified an attempted online login.
The username was tied to Dad's investment account.
The date was that morning.
8:42 a.m.
I had been standing outside the church cemetery with fresh flowers in my hands at that exact time.
Ethan had told me he was leaving early because he needed to stop for gas before the will reading.
I looked at him.
“Were you at a gas station?”
His eyes narrowed.
“What?”
“This morning.”
“Yes.”
“Which one?”
“Lydia, what does that matter?”
“Which gas station?”
He rubbed his jaw.
“The Shell on Brookfield.”
I knew the station.
It was twelve minutes east of our house.
Martin studied the alert.
“The trust company's security team has reported that the attempt came through a registered personal laptop.”
Ethan laughed sharply.
“Computers get hacked.”
“Certainly,” Martin said.
“That is why the matter requires investigation.”
Marjorie lifted her chin.
“Then investigate it without accusing my son.”
Nobody had accused him.
Not formally.
That seemed to frighten her more than anything else.
I remembered the previous night.
Ethan had sat in our home office long after midnight.
When I asked what he was doing, he told me he was handling insurance paperwork.
He had closed his laptop the moment I entered.
I had been too exhausted to question him.
I turned toward Martin.
“Was the login successful?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Your father changed his account credentials and added an independent verification requirement.”
I let out a breath.
Ethan folded his arms.
“So nothing happened.”
Martin looked at him.
“An unsuccessful attempt may still be relevant.”
“Relevant to what?”
“To determining whether someone was trying to gain unauthorized access.”
Ethan stared at him.
“Are we finished?”
Martin closed the laptop.
“For today, yes.”
Marjorie stood immediately.
“This entire experience has been needlessly cruel.”
She looked at me.
“Your father has been gone less than a week, and already his attorney is tearing apart our family.”
I pushed my chair back.
“No.”
My voice surprised even me.
“Dad didn't tear anything apart.”
Marjorie stopped.
I picked up my father's letter.
“Someone tried to use his property without permission.”
“Those are allegations.”
“Someone signed my name.”
“Allegedly.”
I stared at her.
“Did you?”
The question struck harder than shouting would have.
Her lips parted.
“Excuse me?”
“Did you sign my name?”
“Of course not.”
“Then why are you so afraid of finding out who did?”
She looked at Ethan.
He reached for her elbow.
“Come on, Mom.”
Then he turned toward me.
“Lydia, we're going home.”
I kept my hand on the chair.
“No.”
His expression changed.
“What?”
“I'm staying to speak with Martin.”
“We can talk at home.”
“I want to talk here.”
Marjorie shook her head.
“Grief has made you suspicious.”
I looked at her.
“Grief has made me tired.”
Then I turned toward my husband.
“But not stupid.”
He took one step toward me.
Martin rose.
“Mr. Whitmore.”
Ethan stopped.
For a moment, the polite, charming man I had married vanished.
His mouth tightened.
His eyes went cold.
“You're making a mistake,” he told me.
I looked back at him.
“Maybe.”
Then I sat down.
“But at least this one will be mine.”
Ethan left without another word.
Marjorie followed him.
The conference room door shut.
The silence afterward was enormous.
I stared at the empty chairs.
Martin waited.
Then he reached into his portfolio and removed another envelope.
My name was written across it in Dad's unmistakable block handwriting.
I ran a finger over the letters.
“Did he know everything?”
Martin considered the question.
“He knew enough to worry about your safety and financial independence.”
I looked up.
“My safety?”
Martin took a careful breath.
“Lydia, your father did not believe this was merely about a restaurant loan.”
A chill passed through me.
“What else?”
He opened a folder.
Inside was a photograph of Dad's repair shop parking lot.
A black SUV was parked beside the loading entrance.
A man stood next to it.
He had his back to the camera.
But I recognized the jacket.
I had bought it for Ethan's birthday.
Martin pointed to the date stamped beneath the photograph.
“September nineteenth.”
The day Dad had suffered his first serious cardiac episode.
I stared at the image.
“Ethan told me he was in Cincinnati that day.”
Martin remained silent.
I looked at him.
“He said he was meeting a client.”
“Your father believed that was false.”
“What was Ethan doing at the shop?”
Martin slid a second photograph across the table.
This one showed the same SUV.
Its rear hatch was open.
Two men were loading cardboard boxes into it.
The boxes had blue inventory labels.
I knew those labels.
I had printed them myself.
They belonged to Dad's archived business records.
My mouth went dry.
“What did they take?”
Martin looked at the photograph.
“Your father was trying to answer that question when he became ill.”
I stared at the boxes.
Then something clicked.
“Those weren't just business records.”
Martin raised his eyes.
“What do you mean?”
“Dad kept the deeds and property files in old inventory cartons after his office flooded.”
I pointed at the label on the nearest box.
“That's the archive room designation.”
Martin leaned forward.
“Are you certain?”
“Absolutely.”
For the first time that morning, his professional composure cracked.
He opened his laptop again.
“Then there is something else you need to see.”
He showed me a scanned document.
A request for a certified copy of a property deed.
The applicant's name was Lydia Whitmore.
My name.
Again.
The request had been submitted three days before Dad's hospitalization.
May you like
And the mailing address wasn't mine.
It was Marjorie's.
