PART 4 - THE WOMAN WHO WAS SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD

I froze.

Nobody was supposed to know where I was.

I stepped quietly toward the peephole.

A woman stood outside.

Late thirties.

Dark hair.

Nervous eyes.

She held both hands where I could see them.

I did not open the door.

“Who are you?”

She looked toward the peephole.

“My name is Naomi Price.”

The name meant nothing to me.

“Go away.”

“Your father knew me.”

My pulse jumped.

“How did you find me?”

“I followed Lawrence's assistant from the bank.”

That answer did not make me feel better.

“I'll call security.”

“You should.”

She reached into her handbag slowly.

I stepped back.

“Don't.”

She stopped.

“It's only an envelope.”

“Leave it outside.”

She bent and placed a manila envelope on the carpet.

Then stood again.

“You received my messages.”

The unknown number.

I stared through the peephole.

“You sent the picture of Jeremy at the bank.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I saw

what they were doing.”

“Who are they?”

“You already know.”

“Jeremy and Edith?”

Her face tightened.

“And Denise.”

I kept the door locked.

“What did they do to my father?”

Naomi looked down the corridor.

“You're asking the wrong question.”

“What is the right question?”

“What was your father trying to stop them from doing?”

I swallowed.

“Tell me.”

“He discovered something.”

“What?”

“Money was disappearing from one of his investment companies. Small amounts at first. Then larger ones. Fake vendors. Duplicate invoices. Companies that existed only on paper.”

My father's business had invested in commercial property.

Jeremy had worked in commercial insurance before we married.

I remembered suddenly that he once told me he had worked with “a lot of old-school real estate guys” when he was younger.

“Was Jeremy involved?”

Naomi's silence answered before her mouth did.

“He processed documents for one of the shell companies.”

“How did

my father know him?”

“Your father confronted him.”

The hallway seemed to narrow around her.

“When?”

“March fourteenth.”

My hand tightened around the door handle.

“The day he died.”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

Naomi's eyes filled with something I could not identify.

Regret, maybe.

Fear.

“Open the envelope.”

Then she turned.

“Wait.”

She stopped.

“Was my father's heart attack natural?”

She looked over her shoulder.

“I don't know.”

It was the kind of answer that terrified me more than a yes.

Then she walked away.

I waited until she reached the elevators before calling hotel security.

Two guards came upstairs, checked the corridor, and retrieved the envelope.

Only after they confirmed nothing dangerous was visible did I take it inside.

I called Mr. Lawrence first.

He told me not to touch anything unnecessarily.

I placed the envelope on the desk and opened it using a hotel towel around my fingers.

Inside

were photocopies of financial records.

Company names.

Amounts.

Wire transfers.

Dates.

One name appeared repeatedly.

Jameson Administrative Services.

Another appeared below it.

E. Jameson.

Edith.

My mother in law had once told me she spent most of her life “taking care of family.”

Apparently, that included handling money for my father's business.

At the bottom of the envelope was a printed email.

From my father.

To Naomi Price.

Dated March 14.

Subject: Meeting today.

Naomi,

I confirmed the payments.

Edith Jameson has been siphoning funds for years.

Her son knows.

The young man, Jeremy, brought documents this morning. I believe he's frightened and wants protection.

I'm meeting both of them at Marabella's at noon.

If I don't call you afterward, send the file to Lawrence.

—Daniel

I read the email until the words blurred.

Jeremy brought documents.

Jeremy wants protection.

That did not fit.

If Jeremy had been stealing with his mother, why would he bring evidence to my father?

Unless he had turned against her.

Unless something happened afterward.

Unless—

My phone rang.

Mr. Lawrence.

I answered.

“Blaire, I found Naomi Price.”

“You found her?”

“She worked for your father.”

“I know. She just came here.”

“What?”

I told him everything.

His voice became urgent.

“Do not leave that hotel room.”

“Why?”

“Because Naomi Price died four years ago.”

I stopped breathing.

“What?”

“I just pulled the court record. Naomi Elizabeth Price. Former accountant for Hutson Capital. Died in a vehicle accident outside Tampa.”

I stared at the hotel door.

“No. She was just here.”

“Then the woman who visited you was not Naomi Price.”

My skin went cold.

A new message appeared on my phone.

Same unknown number.

One photograph.

Taken from across the hotel hallway.

It showed me standing inside my room with the door partially open while security handed me the envelope.

Whoever took it had still been nearby.

Then a second message appeared.

NOW YOU UNDERSTAND WHY I COULDN'T USE MY REAL NAME.

A third followed.

Your husband did not forge the deed.

I stared at the screen.

Then another message.

He tried to stop it.

My thoughts crashed into each other.

Jeremy's frightened reaction.

The stolen money.

The photograph outside Marabella's.

My father's email saying Jeremy had wanted protection.

Nothing fit the story I had built in my mind.

Before I could type a response, the hotel phone rang.

I answered cautiously.

“Ms. Hutson?”

It was the front desk.

“There is a gentleman here asking to speak with you. He says it's urgent.”

“Name?”

A pause.

“Jeremy Hutson.”

“Don't send him up.”

“He anticipated that. He asked me to tell you something.”

My throat tightened.

“What?”

The receptionist lowered her voice.

“He said, ‘Tell Blaire her father didn't hide the key from me. He hid it from Edith.’”

I closed my eyes.

Then the receptionist added:

“And he says his mother is missing.”

At that exact moment, my phone received one final photograph.

Edith.

Sitting in the passenger seat of a car.

Her face pale.

Beside her was Denise Jameson.

And in Denise's hand was my father's original ledger.

Underneath the image were eight words.

THE WOMAN YOU FEAR IS NOT THE ONE IN CHARGE.

Then came another photograph.

This one had been taken six years earlier.

My father at Marabella's.

Edith across from him.

Jeremy standing nearby.

And seated at the end of the table was a fourth person whose face I recognized immediately.

I nearly dropped the phone.

Because that person was sitting downstairs in the hotel lobby at that very moment.

Mr. Lawrence.

THE END.