Chapter 15 - THE DEAD MAN’S SECOND COMPANY
Charles Whitmore had been dead twelve years.
Until that afternoon, I had known him only through family stories.
Brilliant developer.
Demanding father.
Traditional businessman.
A man Derek had spent half his life trying to impress after death.
The boxes in Unit 117 told a different story.
Charles had created a company called Northline Municipal Services seventeen years earlier.
Evelyn claimed she had never heard of it.
Derek hadn’t either.
Martin found corporate records within an hour.
Northline had received millions in consulting fees connected to zoning applications, site acquisitions and environmental assessments.
Then, shortly before Charles died, the company disappeared.
Its remaining assets were transferred.
To Meridian.
Derek sat on the floor surrounded by documents.
“My father worked with Veronica.”
“Looks that way,” Naomi said.
“No. He hated outside partners.”
“Maybe that’s what he told you.”
Derek looked up sharply.
I knew that expression.
The old Derek would have attacked.
The new one simply looked hurt.
“That was unnecessary.”
Naomi nodded.
“You’re right.”
Progress was occasionally boring.
Dad’s notes suggested Charles discovered Meridian had been paying intermediaries to obtain confidential development information from competing firms.
Including Vance Capital.
But Charles had apparently participated before deciding to withdraw.
“Dad tried to stop it,” Derek said.
Martin shook his head.
“We don’t know that.”
Derek looked at me.
“You believe the worst.”
“I believe paper.”
That hurt him.
But paper had never ignored seventeen phone calls.
We worked until evening.
Then Naomi found the ledger.
A column listed payments from Northline.
One recipient appeared seventeen times.
R. LANG.
Another appeared only twice.
E. WHITMORE.
Derek stood.
“No.”
Evelyn’s initials.
The payments totaled four hundred thousand dollars.
I called her.
She denied everything.
“These aren’t mine.”
“Your initials are listed.”
“So are thousands of other people’s.”
“Did Charles ever give you four hundred thousand dollars?”
“No.”
“Did Veronica?”
“No.”
“Richard?”
“No.”
Then she became quiet.
“What?”
“There was an account.”
“What account?”
“Charles created something for me. I thought it was life insurance.”
“How much?”
“I don’t know.”
“Evelyn.”
“Approximately four hundred thousand.”
Derek closed his eyes.
“Where is it now?”
“Gone.”
“How?”
“I used it after Charles died.”
“For what?”
“Keeping Whitmore alive.”
That was Evelyn.
Even confession became justification.
Martin requested bank records.
We locked Unit 117.
When I reached home, Claire was asleep on the couch because she had refused to let Maisie and me stay alone.
Maisie slept upstairs.
The house alarm was armed.
Two private security officers sat outside.
I should have felt safe.
Instead I noticed something on the kitchen table.
A toy.
A tiny wooden bluebird.
I had never seen it before.
Underneath it was a folded piece of paper.
I didn’t touch it.
Claire woke when I stepped backward.
“What?”
I pointed.
Her face changed.
Police arrived within ten minutes.
No forced entry.
No camera footage.
No alarm breach.
Detective Morales opened the note wearing gloves.
One sentence.
SAMUEL SHOULD HAVE LEFT HARBOR POINT BURIED.
Claire whispered, “How did they get inside?”
Detective Morales looked toward the ceiling.
“They may not have.”
“What?”
She pointed to the wooden bird.
“This could have been here before the alarm was armed.”
My blood turned cold.
Earlier that day, only four people had entered the house.
Claire.
The nanny.
Derek.
And Evelyn.
May you like
One of them had either brought the bluebird inside—
or somebody wanted me to believe they had.
