For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then he reached into his coat and removed a small photograph.
It showed him standing outside a hospital.
The date printed on the back was three days before Daniel's death.
Olivia recognized the building.
It was the hospital where Daniel had received treatment after a minor car accident several months earlier.
"Why were you there?" she asked.
Thomas placed the photograph on the table.
"Because I was visiting someone."
"Who?"
He looked directly at her.
"Your husband."
Olivia stared at him.
"Daniel wasn't in the hospital three days before he died."
"Yes, he was."
"That's impossible. He told me he was working late."
Thomas shook his head.
"He didn't want you to know."
Olivia felt her chest tighten.
"What happened?"
Thomas took a deep breath.
"Daniel had received a warning. Someone had tried to force him off the road a week earlier. His car was damaged, but he managed to escape without serious injuries."
Olivia remembered that evening.
Daniel had arrived home late, saying he had experienced a problem with one of his tires.
She had asked whether he needed to visit a mechanic.
He had smiled and told her not to worry.
She had believed him.
"He was protecting me," she whispered.
Thomas nodded.
"He didn't want you involved."
Olivia looked down at the photograph.
"And you knew?"
"Yes."
"Did Margaret know?"
Thomas shook his head.
"No. Daniel asked me to keep it secret."
Margaret looked devastated.
"My son was afraid, and nobody told me?"
Thomas looked at her.
"He was trying to protect you, too."
Margaret turned away.
Olivia stood.
"Enough. I want to speak to Samantha."
Thomas immediately got up.
"I'm coming with you."
"No."
"Olivia—"
"I said no."
She picked up her handbag.
"If Samantha wants to tell me something, I'll listen to her alone."
Thomas looked at Margaret.
The older woman slowly nodded.
"Let her go."
Olivia walked toward the café entrance.
Before leaving, she turned around.
"Thomas, if I discover that you have lied to me about Daniel's death, I will never forgive you."
Thomas lowered his eyes.
"I understand."
But as Olivia stepped outside, he quietly added:
"Just remember one thing. Samantha wasn't the only person Daniel was afraid of."
Olivia stopped.
"What does that mean?"
Thomas looked at her.
"Ask her about the night she disappeared."
The journey to Samantha's apartment took twenty minutes.
Olivia drove through the Christmas decorations and crowded shopping streets, barely noticing the people around her.
Her thoughts were consumed by questions.
Why had Samantha waited three years to contact her?
Why was she meeting Edward Whitmore?
And why had Daniel been afraid of someone he had never mentioned?
She remembered Samantha's kindness.
They had met at a charity event shortly after Olivia married Daniel. Samantha had been friendly, funny, and remarkably thoughtful. She was the first person Olivia called when Daniel died.
She had helped arrange the funeral.
She had stayed overnight at the house when Margaret could not stop crying.
She had even organized a small memorial dinner on Daniel's birthday.
Olivia had trusted her completely.
Now every memory seemed different.
When she arrived at the apartment building, Samantha was waiting outside.
She wore a long beige coat, and her dark hair was tied into a loose ponytail. Her face looked pale, and her eyes were swollen as though she had been crying.
"Olivia."
Samantha hurried toward her.
"Thank God you're here."
Olivia stopped several feet away.
"Why did you send me that message?"
Samantha looked around.
"Not here."
"Then where?"
"Inside."
Olivia hesitated before following her.
The apartment was small but beautifully decorated. A Christmas wreath hung on the front door, and a half-finished cup of tea sat on the kitchen counter.
Samantha locked the door.
Then she closed the curtains.
Olivia watched her carefully.
"You're frightening me."
"I'm sorry."
"Tell me what you know."
Samantha sat down.
For a moment, she seemed unable to speak.
Then she opened a drawer and removed a small black notebook.
Olivia immediately recognized it.
It was similar to the one they had found in the blue room.
"Where did you get that?"
"Daniel gave it to me."
Olivia stared at her.
"When?"
"Three days before he died."
The room seemed to spin.
"You knew Daniel was in danger?"
Samantha nodded.
"I knew something was happening. I didn't know how serious it was until later."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because Daniel made me promise."
Olivia shook her head.
"Everyone keeps making promises to my husband. Everyone keeps hiding things from me. Do you understand what that has done to my life?"
Samantha began crying.
"I know. And I'm sorry."
"No. You don't know. You weren't the one who woke up every morning wondering what you could have done differently. You weren't the one who spent three years asking yourself whether he suffered, whether he was frightened, whether he tried to call you."
Olivia's voice broke.
"You knew something, Samantha. And you let me suffer."
Samantha lowered her head.
"You're right."
She opened the notebook.
"Daniel discovered that Arthur Collins was using a network of companies to move money. But he also discovered that Arthur wasn't acting alone."
Olivia sat opposite her.
"Edward?"
Samantha nodded.
"Edward Whitmore was the person who originally designed the entire operation."
"But why would Daniel's uncle destroy his own family?"
"Because he believed William had stolen something that belonged to him."
Olivia frowned.
"What?"
"The original business."
Samantha turned several pages.
"William and Edward inherited a small manufacturing company from their father. William wanted to expand it legally. Edward wanted to use the company to make illegal financial transactions."
Olivia listened carefully.
"When William refused, Edward began transferring money without his brother's knowledge. Eventually, William discovered everything and threatened to expose him."
"And Arthur helped Edward?"
"Yes. Arthur was one of their financial partners."
Samantha placed a photograph on the table.
It showed three men standing outside an office.
William Whitmore.
Edward Whitmore.
Arthur Collins.
The photograph was old, perhaps twenty-five years old.