Chapter 3 - The Book My Father-in-Law Left Behind
I did not sleep.
By dawn, Christmas morning had arrived without permission.
Children somewhere were opening presents.
Families were making cinnamon rolls.
Church bells rang through the snow.
I sat at my sister’s dining table wearing yesterday’s scrubs while an FBI agent explained that someone might have tried to kill my husband’s pregnant mistress.
There was no version of my life I could have imagined twenty-four hours earlier that included that sentence.
Special Agent Daniel Rhodes arrived at 5:40 a.m.
He was forty-something, broad-shouldered, exhausted, and carried the particular expression of a man who had stopped being surprised by wealthy families behaving badly.
Rebecca remained beside me.
Emma sat on my other side.
Vincent appeared by video call from a police station.
He looked terrible.
I felt no satisfaction from that.
Rhodes placed a recorder on the table.
“Dr. Moretti, I need to make something very clear. You are not a suspect.”
“Comforting.”
His mouth almost moved.
“However, your husband has been cooperating with an ongoing financial investigation.”
I looked at Vincent’s face on the tablet.
“You were working with the FBI?”
“Indirectly.”
Rhodes corrected him.
“Very indirectly.”
Vincent frowned.
Rhodes continued.
“Mr. Moretti hired private investigators after receiving information from Vanessa Reed. Those investigators uncovered transactions that overlapped with an existing federal inquiry into money laundering through several development projects.”
“Moretti Development?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Federal inquiry? Eighteen months.”
“And no one told Vincent?”
“He wasn’t a target at the beginning.”
“At the beginning?”
Vincent rubbed his forehead.
Rhodes said, “Several internal transactions were authorized under his credentials.”
I turned toward the screen.
Vincent looked furious.
“I didn’t authorize them.”
“So somebody was framing you?”
“That is one possibility.”
“Another possibility?”
Rhodes answered.
“That Mr. Moretti was involved.”
Vincent’s eyes hardened.
“I’m not.”
Rhodes ignored him.
“We investigate evidence, not family loyalties.”
I almost liked him.
He showed me a photograph of a corporate transfer record.
Seven million dollars moved through three subsidiaries.
Another photograph.
Four million.
Then twelve.
The total exceeded forty-eight million over five years.
My mouth went dry.
“And Dominic found this?”
“We believe so.”
“Then died.”
“Yes.”
“Harold Reed found it.”
“Likely.”
“Then disappeared.”
“Yes.”
“And now someone tried to run Vanessa and Vincent off the road.”
Rhodes nodded.
“Which is why we are taking your threatening call seriously.”
Rebecca asked, “What about the attempted transfer from Claire’s account?”
“We’re tracing it.”
I looked at the clock.
6:22.
“My hospital office.”
Rhodes nodded.
“The book.”
“I need to see it.”
“We already sent two agents to secure the office.”
My irritation flared.
“You entered my office?”
“With hospital authorization.”
“Without asking me?”
“Your life may be at risk.”
“So may my patients’ confidentiality.”
Rebecca placed a calming hand on my arm.
Rhodes said, “Agents are waiting outside. Nothing has been searched.”
That helped.
Barely.
I changed into clothes Emma gave me and we drove to St. Catherine’s Medical Center after sunrise.
Vincent was told not to come.
I was grateful.
The hospital was quieter than usual.
Christmas morning staffing.
A few nurses looked at me with the careful expressions of people who had already heard enough gossip to know something had happened but not enough to know what.
I walked to my office with Rebecca, Rhodes, and a hospital administrator.
The book sat exactly where I remembered.
High on the second shelf.
Brown leather.
Gold lettering.
The Principles and Practice of Medicine.
Published decades earlier.
Dominic had given it to me six days before he died.
I pulled it down.
Dust lined the top edge.
My hands trembled when I opened the cover.
The inscription remained.
To the doctor in this family who still knows how to recognize a symptom before the disease shows itself.
I read it twice.
Rhodes put on gloves.
“May I?”
I gave him the book.
He turned several pages.
Nothing.
Then he held it sideways.
The spine looked thicker than necessary.
He pressed the inner binding.
A section released.
Rebecca whispered, “Jesus.”
Inside the hollow spine was a flash drive.
And a key.
Small.
Brass.
Number 317 engraved on one side.
Rhodes looked at me.
“Did you know?”
“No.”
He photographed everything before removing it.
We moved to a secure conference room.
An FBI technician examined the flash drive on an isolated device.
Encrypted.
Of course.
But there was one unencrypted text file.
It contained a single sentence.
Claire will understand the date Vincent refuses to remember.
My stomach tightened.
Rhodes looked at me.
“What date?”
I knew immediately.
“The miscarriage.”
Vincent had spent years avoiding that date.
March 14.
The technician entered 0314.
Wrong.
Rhodes glanced at me.
“Anything else?”
I thought about Dominic.
He loved puzzles.
Dates.
Anniversaries.
Codes.
Claire will understand the date Vincent refuses to remember.
Maybe not the date of the miscarriage.
The date Vincent had forgotten something.
“Our anniversary?”
“Try it.”
May 22.
Wrong.
I closed my eyes.
Then a memory returned.
The night I miscarried, Vincent arrived at the hospital at 6:11 the next morning.
He stood beside my bed and said, “I’m sorry I missed yesterday.”
Yesterday.
I had hated that word.
As though our child had disappeared on a calendar.
“Try 0315.”
The file opened.
There were hundreds of documents.
Internal emails.
Account ledgers.
Scanned invoices.
Photographs.
Audio recordings.
Dominic had built his own evidence archive.
Rhodes leaned toward the screen.
“This is significant.”
One folder was labeled PIERCE.
Another REED.
Another J.M.
My pulse accelerated.
“Julian Moretti.”
Rhodes did not confirm.
He opened PIERCE first.
Emails between Dominic and Dr. Malcolm Pierce.
At first they appeared routine.
Medical appointments.
Lab results.
Medication.
Then Dominic’s messages changed.
Malcolm, I never authorized this prescription.
Malcolm, my blood level was dangerously high.
Who ordered these refills?
Pierce answered:
We should discuss in person.
Another email.
Stop asking questions through unsecured channels.
My skin prickled.
The folder contained a scanned toxicology test from a private laboratory.
Digoxin level far above therapeutic range.
Date: six weeks before Dominic died.
“He knew,” I whispered.
Rhodes nodded.
The REED folder contained accounting records.
Harold Reed had documented fake contractors receiving millions.
One contractor appeared repeatedly.
Bellweather Holdings.
Not Bellweather Consulting.
Similar enough to hide inside noise.
The company was tied to a trust.
Beneficiary hidden.
The J.M. folder contained photographs of Julian Moretti meeting with Malcolm Pierce.
Bank documents.
Invoices.
A draft letter Dominic had apparently never sent.
Vincent,
If you are reading this, I failed to solve this before it reached you.
Do not assume blood means loyalty.
Do not assume Claire is safer because she knows less.
Your brother believes the company belongs to him because he stayed while you built your own division.
I confronted him about the accounts.
He denied everything.
Two days later, my medication was changed without my consent.
I am not yet ready to accuse him of attempted murder.
But if something happens to me, look at Julian.
I covered my mouth.
Rhodes immediately stood.
“Agent Cole, call the team.”
Rebecca looked at me.
“You need protection.”
I barely heard her.
My husband’s brother.
The man who brought soup after my miscarriage.
The man who carried Dominic’s coffin.
The man who hugged Vincent at the cemetery.
Rhodes opened another audio file.
Dominic’s voice filled the room.
Weak.
Angry.
“If you’re recording this, Harold, make sure it reaches Claire if Vincent does something stupid.”
A second voice, presumably Harold Reed, answered.
“Why Claire?”
“Because my son loves emotionally and thinks strategically only after the damage. Claire does the opposite.”
Despite everything, I almost laughed.
Dominic continued.
“Julian moved twenty-one million that I can prove. Maybe more. Malcolm helped hide payments. I don’t know whether Malcolm understands what Julian is doing or whether they’re partners.”
Harold said, “What about Vanessa?”
“Keep your daughter out of this.”
My chest tightened.
Vanessa.
The recording continued.
“Julian knows you’re checking the books.”
“I know.”
“If anything happens—”
“I gave Claire the archive.”
“You told her?”
“No. She’d try to fix everything. That woman walks toward disasters for a living.”
Rebecca gave me a look.
Dominic’s voice softened.
“She’ll find it if she needs it.”
The recording ended.
I sat in silence.
Rhodes looked at me.
“Your father-in-law may have saved this investigation.”
“And put a target on me without telling me.”
“Yes.”
I appreciated his honesty.
At 9:14 a.m., Vincent called.
Rhodes answered first.
“You need to come in.”
Vincent frowned through the screen.
“What happened?”
Rhodes looked at me.
I nodded.
“We found Dominic’s archive.”
Vincent stopped breathing.
“What?”
“In the book.”
His expression changed so violently that I had to look away.
“My father left something for Claire?”
“Yes.”
“Does it say who killed him?”
Rhodes said, “We need to discuss that in person.”
Vincent understood immediately.
“Julian.”
No one answered.
Vincent stood.
“I’m coming.”
Rhodes snapped, “No. Stay where law enforcement told you to stay.”
“That’s my brother.”
“Which is exactly why you’re staying.”
Vincent turned away from the screen and slammed one hand against a wall.
I watched him.
Part of me wanted to reach through the distance and hold him.
That instinct hurt.
Because love did not disappear simply because trust did.
Love could survive betrayal.
It just stopped being safe.
He turned back.
“Claire.”
“I’m here.”
“I’m sorry.”
“For which part?”
“All of it.”
“That’s too large a category.”
His face tightened.
“Did my father mention you?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“That you think emotionally and strategically only after the damage.”
Rebecca looked down to hide a smile.
Vincent gave a broken laugh.
“That sounds like him.”
“He trusted me.”
“He loved you.”
“I loved him too.”
Silence settled between us.
For the first time since Christmas Eve, Vincent and I were grieving the same person instead of fighting over each other.
Then Rhodes’s phone rang.
His expression changed as he listened.
“When?”
He stood.
“Lock down the building.”
My heartbeat jumped.
“What happened?”
He ended the call.
“Vanessa Reed is missing.”
I stared at him.
“She was in a hospital bed.”
“Apparently she left against medical advice.”
“No.”
“What?”
“She wouldn’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Because she was terrified of losing the pregnancy.”
Rhodes understood.
“You think someone took her.”
“I think a woman who begged me to save her baby four hours ago would not voluntarily disappear while still bleeding.”
Vincent shouted through the tablet.
“Find her.”
Rhodes ignored the order.
My phone vibrated.
A text message.
From Vanessa’s number.
A photograph loaded.
Vanessa sitting in the back seat of a vehicle.
Tears on her face.
A man’s hand visible at her shoulder.
Below the image were seven words.
BRING THE KEY TO LOCKER 317 ALONE.
I looked at Rhodes.
He already knew from my expression.
“What?”
I turned the phone toward him.
His face hardened.
May you like
Then another message appeared.
AND DON’T TELL YOUR HUSBAND HIS BROTHER IS WATCHING.
