Chapter 2 - The Second Envelope
Nobody laughed after that.
Not Vivian.
Not Marcus.
Not even when Dad’s voice weakened and he sank back into the chair.
I crouched beside him.
“What do you mean someone tried to kill you?”
Vivian answered before he could.
“He means the accident.”
I turned.
“I wasn’t asking you.”
Her eyes narrowed.
Dad closed his eyes.
For a moment, I thought he might be slipping into confusion.
Then he whispered.
“My brakes.”
My stomach tightened.
“The police report said you lost control on Lake Shore Drive.”
“That’s what I told them.”
“Why?”
His eyes opened.
“Because I didn’t know who I could trust.”
Marcus scoffed.
“That’s ridiculous.”
Dad looked at him.
“You weren’t there.”
“No, but I read the report.”
“You read what I allowed them to write.”
I stared at my father.
This was the man who had once walked into a boardroom filled with thirty hostile investors and made every one of them wait while he poured himself coffee.
Now he could barely sit upright.
But for the first time since I had entered the house, I could see traces of him returning.
“What happened?”
I asked.
Dad took a slow breath.
“The morning of the accident, I drove myself.”
“That was unusual?”
“I hadn’t driven myself in months.”
Vivian’s voice sharpened.
“Because you were overworked.”
Dad ignored her.
“My driver’s daughter was sick.”
“So he called out?”
“Yes.”
“Who knew you’d be driving?”
Dad looked at Vivian.
She folded her arms.
“Do not do this.”
His gaze didn’t move.
“You did.”
Marcus stepped forward.
“Mom was your wife.”
“She knew my schedule.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“No.”
Dad looked at me.
“But something else does.”
He lifted his bandaged hand.
“The car had been serviced two days earlier.”
“Where?”
“Hale fleet maintenance.”
My mind moved quickly.
Hale Construction operated hundreds of vehicles.
The company maintained an internal fleet facility south of downtown.
Access was restricted.
Every vehicle entering or leaving the maintenance area was recorded.
“Who ordered the service?”
Dad hesitated.
Then he looked at Marcus.
Marcus’s face changed.
“It was routine maintenance.”
My pulse quickened.
“You ordered it?”
“I oversee operations.”
“You oversee real estate acquisitions.”
“I oversee whatever Richard asks me to oversee.”
Dad shook his head.
“I didn’t ask.”
Vivian stepped forward.
“That’s enough.”
“No,” I said.
“It’s not.”
She looked at me.
“You arrived less than ten minutes ago.”
“And I’ve already learned that my father didn’t willingly crawl across his own floor, his medication is being controlled by you, Marcus is wearing property Dad clearly didn’t give him, corporate shares were transferred while Dad was recovering from a concussion, somebody filed a trust amendment using the signature of a dead attorney, and now Dad says his brakes were tampered with.”
I paused.
“That’s a productive ten minutes.”
Marcus’s jaw tightened.
“You think being some corporate attorney in Seattle makes you a detective?”
“No.”
I stood slowly.
“But it taught me what frightened people look like when documents start appearing.”
I looked directly at him.
“You look frightened.”
His face flushed.
Dad touched my sleeve.
“Izzy.”
I turned.
“The envelope.”
I had almost forgotten the one in my hand.
I sat beside him.
“You want me to open it?”
He nodded.
Vivian moved toward the doorway.
I noticed immediately.
“Stay.”
She stopped.
Her expression hardened.
“You don’t give me orders.”
“Then leave.”
She stared at me.
“But if you walk out before I open this, I’ll assume whatever is inside scares you.”
She stayed.
I broke the seal.
Inside was a letter.
Seven pages.
Handwritten.
Dated twelve years earlier.
The first paragraph nearly broke me.
Isabella,
If you are reading this, I either failed to protect this family or waited too long to tell you the truth.
I stopped.
Dad looked away.
I continued reading silently.
The letter had been written less than six months after my mother’s death.
It described the original structure of Hale Construction.
The trust.
The founder shares.
Emergency succession provisions.
It listed attorneys.
Accountants.
Bankers.
People I had known as a child without understanding why they were always around.
Then I reached page five.
And found Vivian’s name.
I looked up.
She was staring at me.
“What?”
Marcus asked.
I read the line again.
Vivian Mercer served as junior financial controller from 1999 to 2002.
Vivian Mercer.
Before she became Vivian Hale.
Before she became my father’s wife.
She had worked for his company.
I turned toward Dad.
“You told me you met her at a charity dinner.”
His eyes closed.
“I lied.”
Vivian’s voice was quiet.
“We did reconnect at a charity dinner.”
“Reconnect.”
I looked back at the letter.
Dad had fired Vivian twenty-four years earlier.
The reason was written in his own handwriting.
Suspected manipulation of vendor invoices.
Insufficient evidence for prosecution.
Termination recommended by internal audit.
I felt cold.
“You knew she had been accused of stealing from you?”
Dad nodded.
“And you married her?”
“I thought she had changed.”
Marcus laughed bitterly.
“Unbelievable.”
Vivian rounded on him.
“Be quiet.”
I kept reading.
At the bottom of the seventh page was a note.
One sentence.
If Vivian Mercer ever returns to a position of influence over Hale Construction, contact Nathan Cole immediately.
I knew the name.
Everyone in Chicago business circles knew it.
Nathan Cole had been one of the city’s most respected forensic accountants.
He had disappeared from public life years ago.
I looked at Dad.
“Where is Nathan Cole?”
He stared at the floor.
“I don’t know.”
Vivian gave a short laugh.
“He died.”
Dad looked at her.
“No.”
Her smile vanished.
“He didn’t.”
“You told me he did.”
“I said I heard he died.”
Dad’s voice hardened.
“You told me you went to his funeral.”
Marcus stared at his mother.
“Mom?”
Vivian’s face remained perfectly controlled.
“You were recovering from surgery at the time.”
“What funeral?”
Marcus asked.
Nobody answered him.
Dad looked at me.
“Find Nathan.”
Vivian shook her head.
“This is absurd.”
My phone vibrated.
A text message.
Unknown number.
I opened it.
Three words appeared.
DON’T TRUST MERCER.
My heart stopped.
Vivian’s maiden name was Mercer.
Then another message arrived.
NOT VIVIAN.
I stared at the screen.
A third message followed.
DAVID MERCER.
I looked up.
Dad saw my expression.
“What?”
I turned the phone toward him.
His face went gray.
David Mercer was my father’s personal attorney.
And Vivian’s older brother.
Before anyone could speak, tires screamed outside.
A car accelerated away from the house.
I ran toward the front window.
A black sedan disappeared around the corner.
Something white lay on the front steps.
An envelope.
I opened the door.
Across the front, written in thick black ink, were five words.
May you like
YOU HAVE TWENTY-FOUR HOURS.
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