Chapter 8 - The Missing File Cabinet
I hardly slept.
The motel room had beige walls, a humming refrigerator, and curtains that never completely closed.
Every time headlights moved across the ceiling, I opened my eyes.
At 5:40 a.m., I gave up.
I sat at the small desk with Dad's spiral notebook and began reconstructing the last year of his life.
November.
Questions about land values at Thanksgiving.
January.
Daniel's financial difficulties became more urgent.
February.
A proposed acquisition company began preparing to purchase Dad's land.
July.
Natalie lost her job after questioning the financial records.
August.
Dad recorded his conversation with Ethan and revised his estate plan.
September.
Forged documents were submitted.
Dad confronted Ethan.
Then his health deteriorated.
October.
Dad died.
And Ethan started planning how to spend the inheritance before the funeral flowers had wilted.
I wrote every date down.
Then I drew a line beneath September nineteenth.
The day Ethan had visited the shop with Daniel.
The day Dad collapsed.
The day archive boxes disappeared.
I had assumed the missing records were property files.
But Martin's comment about someone inside the business troubled me.
Who could have helped them?
Dad trusted very few people.
Calvin.
Our front-desk supervisor, Rebecca.
Three longtime mechanics.
And me.
I opened Dad's notebook again.
On the last page, beneath a list of property identification numbers, he had written three words.
Check old cabinet.
I stared at them.
There were six filing cabinets in Dad's office.
Four stood along the back wall.
One sat beside the desk.
The last was in the parts storage room.
It had been there since before I graduated high school.
I remembered it because Dad always complained that the bottom drawer stuck.
At seven, I called Calvin.
He answered immediately.
“You all right?”
“Yes.”
“Your voice says otherwise.”
“Can you meet me at the shop?”
“I'm already here.”
I arrived twenty minutes later.
Calvin was waiting with coffee.
We went straight to the storage room.
The old gray filing cabinet stood beside a shelving unit filled with obsolete parts manuals.
I pulled open the top drawer.
Empty.
The second held old service contracts.
The third contained employee records from years ago.
The bottom drawer was locked.
I looked at Calvin.
“Did Dad have the key?”
“Probably.”
“Where?”
He thought for a moment.
“Used to keep spare keys in that coffee tin.”
We searched the office.
Nothing.
Then I remembered the metal box Calvin had given me.
Inside, beneath the spiral notebook, was a small brass key.
It fit.
The bottom drawer opened with a metallic scrape.
Inside were three hanging folders.
One labeled PROPERTY.
One labeled TRUST.
One labeled EMPLOYEE.
I reached for the third.
The folder contained photocopied identification documents, old employment applications, and internal access records.
On top was a printed report.
It showed access to Dad's accounting system during the previous six months.
Several dates were highlighted.
The user account belonged to Rebecca Collins.
Our front-desk supervisor.
My stomach sank.
Rebecca had worked for Dad for nearly nine years.
She had brought meals after his hospital stays.
She had hugged me at the funeral.
I looked at Calvin.
“Did Rebecca know about the separate property company?”
He frowned.
“Not that I know of.”
I pointed to the report.
“Then why was she accessing its files?”
Calvin leaned closer.
His face darkened.
“That's not right.”
I turned to the next page.
It was a copy of a wire transfer receipt.
$32,000.
The sender was Whitmore Development Services.
The recipient was a personal account bearing Rebecca's name.
The date was June seventeenth.
Calvin sat down heavily on a storage crate.
“Lord.”
I stared at the paper.
It was possible there was an innocent explanation.
A loan.
A property sale.
A legitimate service agreement.
But the amount was too large to ignore.
“What do we do?” Calvin asked.
“Nothing yet.”
He looked up.
“Nothing?”
“Not without Martin.”
I photographed the records.
Then I put everything back exactly where we found it.
When we returned to the office, Rebecca was standing by the counter.
She wore a green sweater and held a stack of customer invoices.
“Lydia.”
Her smile seemed genuine.
“I didn't know you were coming in.”
“Just checking a few things.”
She looked toward the storage room.
“Anything I can help with?”
“No.”
Calvin moved beside me.
“We've got it.”
Rebecca's eyes flickered between us.
For a moment, I thought she might ask what we had found.
Instead, she smiled again.
“Your father would be happy to see you here.”
The words felt strangely rehearsed.
I looked at her.
“Would he?”
Her smile faltered.
“Of course.”
I studied the woman I had known for almost a decade.
A woman who had attended birthday dinners at Dad's house.
Who knew where he kept the spare coffee filters.
Who had helped me decorate the office for Christmas.
And suddenly I understood how easily trust could become access.
“Rebecca,” I said.
“Yes?”
“Did Ethan ever ask you for financial information about Dad's properties?”
Her face changed.
Only slightly.
But enough.
“Why would he?”
“I'm asking whether he did.”
She placed the invoices down.
“I don't remember.”
“You don't remember?”
“Lydia, people ask questions about the business all the time.”
“Then you won't mind discussing it with Martin.”
Her shoulders stiffened.
“An attorney?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Dad's records are part of the estate.”
She looked at Calvin.
He said nothing.
Rebecca swallowed.
“I've got customers waiting.”
She turned and hurried toward the front desk.
I watched her go.
Calvin moved closer.
“You think she sold him information?”
“I think we need to find out.”
My phone rang.
Martin.
I answered.
“I found the employee access report,” I said before he could speak.
There was a pause.
“How?”
“Dad left it in a locked filing cabinet.”
“Bring it to me.”
“I have photographs.”
“Bring the original records as well, if you can preserve their condition and document where you found them.”
I lowered my voice.
“There's a transfer to Rebecca.”
“From which company?”
“Whitmore Development Services.”
“How much?”
“Thirty-two thousand dollars.”
Martin went quiet.
Then he said, “That explains something.”
“What?”
“Your father left a written instruction regarding Rebecca Collins.”
My stomach tightened.
“What instruction?”
Martin read it aloud.
“Do not accuse her until you know who was holding the other end of the rope.”
I stared through the office window.
Rebecca was answering the telephone.
She looked frightened.
Not merely nervous.
Frightened.
“What does that mean?” I whispered.
Martin replied, “I think your father believed she was being pressured.”
“By Ethan?”
“Possibly.”
I kept watching Rebecca.
She glanced toward the parking lot.
A silver SUV had just pulled into the entrance.
My stomach dropped.
Ethan stepped out.
May you like
He was carrying a cardboard box.
And he was walking directly toward the shop.
