Reynolds sat at the table while I stared at the number.
His father's account.
The words made no sense.
“Why would Sarah have your father's account number?”
“I don't know.”
“You're asking me to believe that?”
“No.”
He looked exhausted.
“I don't know why she had it.”
Elaine leaned forward.
“When did your father die?”
“Eight years ago.”
“Was the account closed?”
“It should have been.”
“Should?”
Reynolds nodded.
“My father had several business accounts. I didn't handle them.”
“Who did?”
“A law firm.”
“Which one?”
He gave us the name.
I recognized it.
The same firm that had handled Sarah's trust.
My stomach tightened.
Rebecca.
The investors.
The hidden account.
Everything seemed to lead back there.
But something still bothered me.
“Why would Sarah put your father's account number in her recording?”
Reynolds looked at the photograph again.
“She may not have known it was his.”
“Then what did she know?”
“That someone was using it.”
I stared at him.
“For what?”
“Money transfers.”
Elaine whispered, “The missing account.”
Reynolds nodded.
“We think your daughter's investigation crossed paths with an old financial network.”
“And your father was part of it?”
“No.”
He answered immediately.
Then more quietly:
“But someone may have used his identity after his death.”
I felt a chill.
“Who?”
“We don't know.”
“Then what do we know?”
“That Sarah discovered a transfer from her company into an account associated with my father's old business.”
“Did the money return?”
“No.”
“How much?”
“Two hundred thousand.”
Elaine looked at me.
“That could be the beginning.”
Reynolds nodded.
“Sarah may have followed it.”
“And found the four million.”
“Yes.”
I looked at the third drive.
“Then why did she never tell me?”
“Because she was protecting you.”
I shook my head.
“Everyone keeps saying that.”
“Because it's true.”
I stood.
“I am tired of being protected by secrets.”
Reynolds looked at me.
“You're right.”
He opened another folder.
“This is everything we found after Sarah's death.”
There were pages of transfers.
Names.
Dates.
Companies.
Several entries had been highlighted.
One name appeared repeatedly.
Elaine Parker.
My sister's name.
I looked at her.
She stared at the papers.
“I didn't do that.”
“I believe you,” I said.
“But someone used my credentials.”
“Yes.”
Reynolds pointed to one transfer.
“This was made the night before Sarah died.”
Elaine shook her head.
“I was home.”
“Who can verify that?”
“My husband.”
“Did he have access to your computer?”
“Yes.”
I looked at her.
Her face changed.
“You never told Sarah.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because my husband had been hiding debts.”
I sat down.
Another secret.
Another person connected to the money.
“What happened to him?”
“He died last year.”
“How?”
“Heart attack.”
Reynolds looked at me.
“We never investigated him.”
“Why?”
“Because there was no reason to.”
Elaine looked sick.
“Are you saying he was involved?”
“I'm saying we need to know.”
The next morning, we went to Elaine's old house.
Her husband had kept an office in the basement.
Dust covered the desk.
Old boxes were stacked against the wall.
Reynolds searched the filing cabinets.
I looked through a drawer.
Inside was a photograph of Sarah.
It had been taken at a restaurant.
Sarah was sitting across from someone.
The face was cut out.
I turned it over.
There was writing.
I know who is behind the money.
Beneath it was a date.
The date was two days before Sarah died.
I showed Reynolds.
He stared at it.
“She met someone.”
“Who?”
“We need to find out.”
Then Elaine opened a cabinet.
A hidden compartment appeared behind a row of files.
Inside was a small notebook.
Sarah's handwriting filled the first pages.
Names.
Dates.
Account numbers.
And one repeated phrase:
ASK ABOUT THE PARKER ACCOUNT.
Elaine's face went white.
“What Parker account?”
Reynolds looked at her.
“Your family had one?”
“No.”
“Your husband?”
“I don't know.”
We kept reading.
Sarah had written that money had been transferred through an old Parker account.
But the account had been closed years earlier.
Someone had reopened it.
Using Elaine's husband's identity.
I stared at the notebook.
“Then he was involved.”
Elaine sat down.
“He never told me.”
“Maybe he didn't intend to.”
Reynolds found another page.
There was a name.
Thomas Mitchell.
David's brother.
We had thought he was only involved in the attack on Martin.
But Sarah had written:
Thomas moves money for them.
The next line was underlined.
He is not the leader.
I looked at Reynolds.
“Then who is?”
He turned the page.
The answer was missing.
Someone had torn it out.
I felt a strange frustration.
Sarah had left clues everywhere.
Always enough to bring us closer.
Never enough to make the entire picture simple.
Then Elaine whispered, “There's another notebook.”
“Where?”
She pointed toward the old piano in the corner.
My heart stopped.
“Why is everyone hiding things in pianos?”
She gave a nervous laugh.
Inside the piano bench was another envelope.
This one was addressed to me.
Mom,
If you are reading this, you've already found the Parker account.
I need you to understand something.
The person behind it is not someone you would suspect.
I trusted this person.
You trusted this person.
Lily trusted this person.
I stared at the page.
My pulse quickened.
Sarah continued.
They were with us after I died.
They cried with you.
They helped you protect Lily.
And they have been waiting for you to stop asking questions.
I read the sentence twice.
Then a name appeared.
I dropped the paper.
Elaine picked it up.
Her face went pale.
“No.”
Reynolds looked between us.
“Who?”
I could barely speak.
“The person Sarah named…”
The name belonged to someone who had been beside us from the beginning.
Someone who had attended the funeral.
Someone who had helped secure Lily's future.
Someone who had always claimed to love Sarah.
Someone who had never once been investigated.
Reynolds took the paper.
His expression hardened.
“This changes everything.”
I looked toward the doorway.
A shadow moved outside.
Then the doorbell rang.
Once.
Twice.
Elaine whispered, “Who is that?”
I didn't answer.
The door opened.
A familiar figure stepped inside.
He was carrying flowers.
He smiled as though he had come to check on a grieving family.
But his eyes went directly to the notebook.
Then to the letter.
Then to me.
“I was worried about you,” he said.
I finally understood Sarah's warning.
The person we had trusted had never left.
He had simply been waiting.
Click here to continue reading: PART 9: The Man at the Door Claimed He Came to Help, but Sarah’s Warning Made Me See the Flowers in His Hands Differently
The Woman Beside My Daughter’s Coffin Smiled as Though the Funeral Were the Beginning of Something She Had Already Won
Part 8 of 20
