“Yes. But we need to be careful.”
He looked at me.
“There's something else. Michael contacted me this morning.”
I frowned.
“What did he say?”
“He believes someone has been accessing Richard's archived business files without authorization.”
My stomach tightened.
“Who?”
“We don't know yet.”
David closed the folder.
“But if someone is removing documents now, we need to act quickly through the appropriate legal channels.”
I thought about Eleanor.
I thought about Alexander.
And I wondered whether the family had been hiding more than either of them had admitted.
That afternoon, I received an email from an address I didn't recognize.
There was no greeting.
No explanation.
Only one sentence.
You should stop looking into the Whitmore family before you discover why Richard really died.
I read it three times.
My hands became cold.
Richard had died of a heart attack.
At least, that was what everyone had told us.
I forwarded the email to David.
Then I called my father.
He answered immediately.
“Claire?”
“Dad, I need you to listen carefully.”
I told him about the message.
He was silent for several seconds.
Then he said something that made my heart sink.
“Your mother received a similar letter shortly before Richard died.”
I stood up.
“What?”
“She never showed it to me until much later. She was frightened that someone was watching the project.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because I thought it had ended.”
I looked at the email again.
“Who sent it?”
“I never found out.”
I closed my eyes.
The past had not disappeared.
It had simply been waiting.
Over the next few days, David and his team began reviewing the older records. They contacted former employees, requested archived financial documents, and arranged interviews with people who had worked on the original housing project.
Meanwhile, Michael continued searching his father's office.
He eventually found a small locked cabinet behind a bookshelf.
Inside were several envelopes, a handwritten ledger, and a sealed package addressed to Eleanor.
Michael sent David photographs of the contents.
The ledger contained a list of transfers dating back more than twenty years.
Several amounts matched the transactions identified in the recent investigation.
But one entry stood out.
It referred to a payment made to an account under the name of a company that no longer existed.
The company had been dissolved shortly after Richard's death.
Its registered address was a property owned by Eleanor.
David examined the documents carefully.
“This is important,” he told me during our next meeting. “But we cannot assume who controlled the account until we obtain the original records.”
I nodded.
“What's the next step?”
“Independent verification. We also need to preserve all correspondence and avoid confronting anyone prematurely.”
I agreed.
For once, I wasn't interested in dramatic confrontations.
I wanted evidence.
I wanted facts.
And I wanted the people responsible to answer for their decisions.
Then, on a Thursday afternoon, Eleanor appeared outside my apartment.
I was returning from work when I saw her standing near the entrance.
She wore a cream coat and held a small handbag.
For a moment, I considered walking past her.
But she had already seen me.
“Claire.”
I stopped.
“Eleanor.”
She looked at the building.
“You live here now?”
“Yes.”
She nodded.
“It's modest.”
I looked at her.
“It's peaceful.”
She seemed uncomfortable.
“May I speak with you?”
I hesitated before unlocking the door.
“We can talk in the lobby.”
She followed me inside.
For several minutes, she stood without speaking.
Then she said:
“Michael has been asking questions.”
I looked at her.
“He has every right to ask questions about his father's records.”
“Those records are complicated.”
“Then the truth should help clarify them.”
Her expression tightened.
“You don't understand the consequences of what you're doing.”
I almost smiled.
“I understand the consequences of remaining silent.”
She lowered her voice.
“Richard made mistakes. Your father made mistakes. Everyone involved made decisions they later regretted.”
“Then why not explain what happened?”
She looked away.
“Because some truths destroy more than they repair.”
I thought about the families who had depended on the foundation.
I thought about my father's fear.
I thought about Richard's letter.
“And some secrets destroy people while everyone pretends they're protecting them.”
Eleanor looked at me for a long moment.
Then she said: