PART 2 — THE SECRET MY FATHER HAD BEEN HIDING
And just like that, nobody was laughing anymore.
For several seconds, the phone remained completely silent.
I could hear Vanessa breathing on the other end.
Grant wasn’t laughing now either.
My father stood beside the kitchen table, one hand resting against the back of the chair, his eyes fixed on the phone as though he could see both of them through it.
Then Vanessa finally spoke.
“Dad?”
Her voice was barely a whisper.
“Yes.”
“You’re alive?”
Dad raised an eyebrow.
“I seem to be.”
There was another long silence.
I could almost picture my sister sitting somewhere in the house, staring at Grant, trying to understand how the man they had declared dead less than five minutes earlier was now speaking to them.
“But…”
Vanessa stopped.
Dad waited.
“But we were told you were dead.”
“By whom?”
“I…”
She hesitated.
Dad’s expression hardened.
“You called Natalie at six-thirty in the morning and told her I died during the night.”
“Yes.”
“You said Harold found me.”
“Yes.”
“You told her you had my will.”
“Yes.”
“You told her the house belonged to you.”
Vanessa said nothing.
Dad slowly pulled out the chair and sat down.
“And then you told my daughter she was no longer part of the family.”
Grant suddenly spoke.
“Dad, we can explain.”
Dad looked at me.
Then back at the phone.
“I’d love to hear it.”
Grant cleared his throat.
“It was a misunderstanding.”
Dad almost smiled.
“A misunderstanding?”
“Yes.”
“You accidentally declared me dead?”
“No.”
“You accidentally changed the locks?”
Grant went silent.
“You accidentally contacted the bank?”
Nothing.
“You accidentally went through my office looking for documents?”
Still nothing.
Dad leaned back.
“And I suppose you accidentally started discussing the sale of my property with a developer?”
Vanessa suddenly gasped.
“Who told you that?”
Dad’s eyes narrowed.
“That wasn’t the answer I expected.”
She realized her mistake immediately.
“I didn’t mean—”
“You didn’t mean to admit it?”
“No, Dad.”
“You didn’t mean to admit that because I never told you I knew?”
Vanessa began crying.
Dad didn’t soften.
“Stop crying.”
She went quiet.
“Dad…”
“Crying won’t change what happened.”
Grant stepped in again.
“You’re making this sound worse than it was.”
Dad’s voice became colder.
“Then tell me what it was.”
Grant hesitated.
“We thought you were getting worse.”
“Worse?”
“Your memory.”
“My memory is fine.”
“You’ve been forgetting things.”
“I forgot where I put my reading glasses once.”
“You forgot my birthday.”
Dad stared at the phone.
“I didn’t forget your birthday.”
Grant stopped.
“I chose not to call you.”
The silence that followed was almost painful.
I looked at my father.
He wasn’t shouting.
He wasn’t angry in the way most people become angry.
He was something else.
Disappointed.
Deeply, painfully disappointed.
Vanessa whispered, “Dad, we were worried about you.”
“No.”
Dad shook his head.
“You were worried about what would happen to my money.”
“That isn’t true.”
“Then why did you contact my bank?”
Vanessa didn’t answer.
“Why did you speak to a developer?”
Nothing.
“Why did you ask Richard Bell to prepare documents giving you control over my property?”
Her breathing became faster.
Dad looked at me.
I could see that he was struggling to keep himself calm.
“Vanessa,” he said quietly, “how long were you planning this?”
She didn’t respond.
“How long?”
“A few months.”
Dad closed his eyes.
I felt something tighten inside my chest.
A few months.
This hadn’t been a sudden mistake.
It wasn’t desperation.
It wasn’t grief.
It was a plan.
Dad opened his eyes.
“And when did you decide I was dead?”
Vanessa’s voice cracked.
“We didn’t.”
“Then why did you tell Natalie?”
“We thought…”
“What?”
“We thought you were going to die soon.”
Dad stared at the phone.
“Soon?”
“Yes.”
“And that gave you permission to start dividing my property?”
“No.”
“Yet you did.”
“We thought you wanted us to have it.”
Dad shook his head.
“You never asked me.”
Vanessa began crying again.
“Dad, I thought you loved me.”
The sentence stunned me.
Dad looked toward the kitchen window.
For a moment, I thought he might break.
Instead, he said quietly:
“I do.”
Vanessa inhaled sharply.
“But loving you doesn’t mean trusting you.”
That sentence seemed to silence her completely.
Dad continued.
“I have spent years trying to convince myself that everything you did had an innocent explanation.”
He looked down at his coffee.
“I told myself you were stressed.”
“I told myself you were worried.”
“I told myself you were angry because Natalie lived far away.”
“I told myself you didn’t mean the things you said.”
He paused.
“But yesterday, I stopped making excuses for you.”
My heart began beating faster.
“Yesterday?” I asked.
Dad looked at me.
“Yes.”
“What happened yesterday?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, he reached into the pocket of his robe.
He pulled out a folded piece of paper.
He placed it on the table.
I looked at it.
“What is that?”
“A copy.”
“Of what?”
“Something Vanessa sent me.”
I frowned.
Dad unfolded the paper.
It was an email.
At first, I didn’t understand why it mattered.
Then I saw the name at the top.
Vanessa.
And underneath it was the name of a local real estate developer.
My stomach dropped.
The message was short.
Dad read it aloud.
“Once the property is transferred, we can close within thirty days.”
I stared at him.
“Transferred?”
Dad nodded.
“There was more.”
He unfolded another page.
“She told them the property would be available soon.”
My mouth went dry.
“But Dad, you never agreed to sell the house.”
“I know.”
“Then how did she think she could transfer it?”
Dad looked at me.
“That is the question.”
I suddenly remembered something Vanessa had said earlier.
The locks.
The bank.
The truck.
The will.
She hadn’t sounded like someone who was hoping to inherit.
She sounded like someone who believed the inheritance had already been secured.
“Dad,” I said slowly, “what did you sign?”
His expression changed.
“Nothing yesterday.”
I frowned.
“What do you mean?”
“I signed something yesterday.”
“What?”
“A new trust.”
My heart skipped.
“You changed your will?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I didn’t know whether I could trust anyone.”
I stared at him.
“Anyone?”
He nodded.
“Not even you.”
That hurt more than I expected.
Dad saw my expression immediately.
“Natalie.”
I shook my head.
“It’s okay.”
“No, it isn’t.”
He leaned forward.
“I didn’t mean that I didn’t trust you.”
“Then what did you mean?”
“I meant that I needed to make sure what I was doing couldn’t be undone by anyone.”
I looked at the paper again.
“What did the new trust say?”
Dad didn’t answer.
Instead, he picked up his phone.
“There’s someone we need to see.”
“Who?”
“Harold.”
I remembered the name immediately.
Harold Pike.
Dad’s oldest friend.
The retired funeral-home owner who had known my father longer than I had been alive.
“Why Harold?”
Dad stood.
“Because he was there yesterday.”
“For what?”
Dad grabbed his coat.
“For everything.”
I stared at him.
“Dad, you’re scaring me.”
He stopped at the front door.
Then he looked back.
“You should be scared.”
I swallowed.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t think Vanessa was acting alone.”
The room seemed to become colder.
“What?”
Dad opened the door.
“I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours asking myself the same question.”
He stepped outside.
“And every answer leads somewhere I don’t like.”
I followed him.
“Dad, who else is involved?”
He didn’t answer.
“Dad?”
He looked at me.
“Harold knows.”
We got into the car.
The drive was quiet.
Neither of us said much for the first few minutes.
Snow had begun falling lightly.
The road was almost empty.
I watched the houses pass by through the passenger window.
My childhood town looked exactly the same.
But everything I thought I knew about my family was beginning to feel different.
Finally, I asked:
“Dad?”
“Hmm?”
“Did Vanessa really steal money from you?”
His hands tightened around the steering wheel.
“I don’t know how much.”
“But you know she took some.”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
He was silent.
“Dad.”
“Forty-eight thousand.”
I stared at him.
“Forty-eight thousand dollars?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Over the last year.”
I couldn’t speak.
“She took small amounts at first.”
“How did you find out?”
“I didn’t.”
“What?”
“The bank did.”
I turned toward him.
“They called me.”
“When?”
“Three months ago.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“I thought there was an explanation.”
“Dad…”
“I know.”
His voice sounded tired.
“I know what you’re going to say.”
“Then why didn’t you stop her?”
“Because she was my daughter.”
I looked away.
That answer somehow explained everything.
Dad had spent his entire life protecting his children from consequences.
Even when they didn’t deserve protection.
Especially when they didn’t deserve it.
Then he said something that made me turn back toward him.
“I stopped her yesterday.”
“How?”
“I changed the accounts.”
“All of them?”
“The ones she had access to.”
“Did she know?”
“No.”
“And the trust?”
“She doesn’t know about that either.”
I stared at him.
“So when she called me this morning…”
“She thought she had already won.”
A strange feeling moved through me.
Not happiness.
Not anger.
Something closer to sadness.
Because Vanessa had been so confident.
She had believed Dad was dead.
She had believed the house was hers.
She had believed I had been pushed out forever.
And she had been completely wrong.
But there was still something I didn’t understand.
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“What exactly did you change yesterday?”
He glanced at me.
“You’ll know when we get to Harold’s.”
“Why won’t you tell me now?”
“Because if I tell you before Harold shows you the documents, you’ll ask questions.”
“I have questions anyway.”
“I know.”
“Then answer them.”
Dad smiled faintly.
“You’ve always been stubborn.”
“From you.”
“Unfortunately.”
I smiled despite myself.
For the first time that morning, the tension eased slightly.
Then Dad’s phone rang.
He looked at the screen.
His expression immediately changed.
“Who is it?”
He didn’t answer.
“Dad?”
He handed me the phone.
I looked at the caller ID.
Vanessa.
I answered.
“Hello?”
There was silence.
Then Vanessa whispered:
“Natalie?”
“Yes.”
“Where are you?”
I looked at Dad.
“Why?”
“Please tell me where Dad is.”
I didn’t answer.
She began crying.
“I need to talk to him.”
“You just did.”
“No.”
Her voice shook.
“I mean privately.”
“Why?”
“Because there’s something I didn’t tell him.”
Dad looked at me sharply.
I put the phone on speaker.
“What didn’t you tell him?” I asked.
Vanessa was silent for several seconds.
Then she said:
“Grant doesn’t know everything.”
Dad’s face went still.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
Vanessa breathed heavily.
“I need to tell Dad something before it’s too late.”
Dad leaned toward the phone.
“I’m here.”
Vanessa gasped.
“Dad?”
“Yes.”
“Oh God.”
Dad’s voice was calm.
“What didn’t you tell me?”
Vanessa began crying.
“I didn’t forge all of the documents.”
Dad’s eyes narrowed.
“What?”
“I only signed one.”
I felt a chill move through me.
“Then who signed the others?” Dad asked.
Vanessa didn’t answer.
“Vanessa.”
“I don’t know.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I swear.”
“Who had access to my office?”
Silence.
“Who knew where my papers were kept?”
Nothing.
Dad’s voice became harder.
“Who knew I had changed my locks?”
Vanessa whispered:
“Someone else.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know his name.”
Dad and I exchanged a look.
“Then what do you know?”
Vanessa took a shaky breath.
“I know he works with Richard.”
Dad’s face went pale.
“Richard Bell?”
“Yes.”
“Who is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“Vanessa.”
“I swear I don’t know.”
Dad stared through the windshield.
“Then how did you meet him?”
Vanessa began crying again.
“Through someone who said he could help us.”
“Who?”
She didn’t answer.
“Who, Vanessa?”
Finally, she whispered a name.
Dad’s hands tightened around the steering wheel.
I saw the color drain from his face.
“Dad?”
He didn’t respond.
“Who did she say?”
Dad slowly looked at me.
Then he whispered:
“Harold.”
My stomach dropped.
“Harold?”
Dad nodded.
“The man we’re going to see.”
Vanessa was still crying through the speaker.
“Dad, please.”
But Dad wasn’t listening anymore.
He ended the call.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then I asked the only question I could think of.
“Do you think Harold is involved?”
Dad stared at the road.
“I don’t know.”
“But Vanessa said his name.”
“I heard her.”
“Then why are we going to his house?”
Dad’s jaw tightened.
“Because if Harold is involved…”
He paused.
“…I need to hear him admit it to my face.”
The car continued down the road.
Neither of us spoke again.
And as Harold’s house finally appeared through the falling snow, I realized something terrifying.
My father hadn’t taken me there because Harold knew the truth.
He had taken me there because Harold might be part of the lie.
And whatever was inside that red folder was about to change everything I thought I knew about my family.
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