Chapter 5
My mother’s voice sounded older than I remembered.
Or maybe I had spent too many years choosing Michael’s comfort over the people who loved me before him.
“What blue folder?” I asked.
The line went quiet.
“Mom?”
She inhaled shakily.
“The one your father kept in the attic before he died.”
I looked at Sarah.
David leaned closer.
“My attic?” I asked.
“No,” Mom said. “His.”
My father’s house in Savannah had been sold nine years ago to help pay Michael’s business debts.
At least that was what Michael told me.
I had signed the papers while breastfeeding Noah, exhausted and trusting.
My mother had not spoken to me for three months afterward.
I thought she was grieving the house.
Now I heard the fear in her silence.
“Mom, tell me.”
“Patricia wanted that house.”
My chest tightened.
“Why?”
“Because your father had evidence against her husband.”
I sat down.
“Against Michael’s father?”
“Against the whole Carter family.”
My maiden name was Brooks.
My husband’s family name was Carter.
The joke had always been that I became a Carter twice.
Emily Brooks Carter.
A name Patricia corrected in every Christmas card.
“What evidence?” David asked gently.
My mother said, “Who is that?”
“My lawyer.”
A pause.
“Good.”
That one word nearly made me cry.
My mother continued.
“Your father worked accounting for a real estate fund in Savannah. Patricia’s husband, Robert, used it to hide money from investors. Your father found out. He planned to testify.”
I could barely hear.
“He died before he could.”
“Yes.”
“A heart attack?”
My mother did not answer.
That was answer enough.
David’s expression changed.
“Mrs. Brooks, do you know where the blue folder is now?”
“I thought it was gone.”
“Why?”
“Because Michael came to Savannah after the funeral. He said he wanted to help. He spent hours in the attic.”
My stomach twisted.
Michael had told me he was helping my mother sort Christmas decorations.
My mother’s voice broke.
“Emily, I tried to tell you he wasn’t right. You said I never gave him a chance.”
The words hit me harder than Rebecca’s slap.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Be careful.”
Before I could answer, Sarah’s doorbell rang.
Everyone froze.
David checked the security camera.
A courier stood outside holding a padded envelope.
No name.
No company logo.
David told us to stay back while he opened it on the porch.
Inside was a flash drive and a sticky note.
For Emily. Your father trusted the wrong lawyer, but not the wrong daughter.
No signature.
David did not plug it into Sarah’s laptop.
He took it to his office and used an offline computer.
We waited for two hours.
When he came back, his face was pale.
“It’s your father’s file.”
My mother began crying on speaker.
The drive contained scans.
Bank transfers.
Shell companies.
Emails between Robert Carter and investors.
A medical report showing my father had complained of chest pain after a confrontation with Robert two days before he died.
And then a video.
Grainy.
Old.
My father sitting in his car at night.
His voice filled Sarah’s kitchen.
“My name is Thomas Brooks. If my daughter Emily ever receives this, it means I failed to stop Robert Carter before he reached my family.”
I covered my mouth.
Dad.
He looked tired in the video.
Scared.
But determined.
“Emily, I know you love Michael. I hope I am wrong about him. But his family does not love anyone more than power.”
My body shook.
“If Patricia Carter ever tries to make you look unstable, she is following the same plan they used on me.”
Sarah grabbed my hand.
My father leaned closer to the camera.
“Do not sign anything. Do not hand over the house. Do not let them isolate you from your mother. And if you have children, protect them first.”
The video ended.
No one spoke.
Then David played one final file.
A voicemail.
Patricia’s voice, twelve years younger.
“If Thomas talks, make his daughter fall for Michael. Girls who feel rescued are easier to own.”
I ran to the sink and threw up.
Michael had not only betrayed me.
He had been sent.
That night, while my children slept upstairs, I took off my wedding ring and placed it in a coffee mug on Sarah’s counter.
Sarah looked at it.
“That where it belongs?”
“For now.”
My phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
A photo appeared.
My mother standing in her kitchen.
Taken through her window.
May you like
Under it:
Stop digging, or Grandma has an accident too.
