Sheriff Mercer immediately contacted the holding facility.
The records confirmed it.
Someone had arrived with forged documents claiming Vanessa was being transferred for an emergency psychiatric evaluation.
The signature belonged to a real attorney.
But the attorney had never requested the transfer.
Someone had impersonated him.
Dad stared at the paperwork.
“Grant.”
Sheriff Mercer shook her head.
“Possibly.”
“Then find him.”
“We are.”
She turned toward me.
“Did Vanessa have any reason to contact you before she disappeared?”
“No.”
My phone vibrated.
A message appeared.
I shouldn't have told you everything.
It was from Vanessa.
I showed the sheriff.
She asked me to respond.
“What do I say?”
“Ask where she is.”
I typed.
Where are you?
Three dots appeared.
Then vanished.
A minute later, another message arrived.
Ask Dad about the night at the lake.
Dad read it.
His expression changed.
“What night at the lake?”
I looked at him.
“You said Mom was with you at the lake during the summer before she died.”
“No.”
“You did.”
Dad shook his head.
“I said we went to the lake the summer before you were born.”
I stared.
“You're sure?”
“Yes.”
The date in Vanessa’s message suddenly mattered.
The lake.
Mom.
Harold.
Grant.
There was something buried there.
Sheriff Mercer arranged for deputies to check the old lake property.
Dad insisted on going.
The house had belonged to my grandparents and had been sold years ago.
But the old boathouse remained.
When we arrived, the lake was almost black beneath the evening sky.
Wind pushed ripples against the dock.
Dad stood silently.
“This is where I met Harold,” he said.
I turned.
“You never told me that.”
“We were twenty.”
He pointed toward the water.
“He saved me after I fell from the dock.”
“That's how you became friends?”
“Yes.”
The sheriff searched the boathouse.
Behind an old cabinet, she found a rusted metal box.
Dad recognized it.
“Harold kept that.”
Inside were photographs.
Letters.
A small notebook.
And a newspaper clipping about a boating accident.
The date was thirty-eight years earlier.
The article reported that a young woman named Eleanor had nearly drowned after falling from a boat.
She had been pregnant.
Dad stared at the article.
“I wasn't here.”
“You thought you were.”
“No.”
Sheriff Mercer looked at him.
“Where were you?”
Dad's face hardened.
“At the hospital with Harold.”
The same night.
The same night Mom had been attacked.
The same night Grant’s story began.
It was not coincidence.
Harold had created an alibi.
The notebook contained his handwriting.
Names.
Dates.
Payments.
One line read:
Thomas at hospital until 11:40.
Another:
Eleanor returns home alone.
Then:
Baby must disappear from records.
Dad took a step backward.
“He planned it.”
Sheriff Mercer photographed every page.
Then I found Vanessa's handwriting.
She had written something in the margin years later.
I know.
That was all.
Dad sat on the dock.
“She knew.”
I sat beside him.
“Vanessa knew the truth as a teenager.”
“Why would she keep it secret?”
“Maybe she was afraid.”
Dad looked at the water.
“Fear doesn't excuse what she did.”
“No.”
“But it explains why she kept protecting Grant.”
I nodded.
The sheriff’s phone rang.
She listened.
Then her expression changed.
“Grant's truck was found abandoned.”
“Where?”
“Three miles from here.”
We returned to the road.
The truck stood beneath a line of trees.
The driver’s door was open.
Inside was Grant’s phone.
No Grant.
The sheriff searched the vehicle.
In the glove compartment she found a handwritten list.
My name.
Dad’s name.
Vanessa’s name.
Harold’s name.
Beside each was a date.
The final date was tomorrow.
Dad looked at it.
“What happens tomorrow?”
Sheriff Mercer didn't answer.
A deputy approached.
“We found blood on the back seat.”
Dad went pale.
“Whose?”
“We don't know yet.”
Then the sheriff received another call.
Vanessa had been located.
Alive.
She was hiding inside an abandoned church less than ten miles away.
We arrived to find her sitting on the floor beneath a stained-glass window.
Her wrists were bruised.
Her face was swollen.
She looked terrified.
Dad entered the room.
Vanessa began crying.
“I didn't know where else to go.”
“Who took you?”
“Grant.”
Dad stopped.
“Where is he?”
“I escaped.”
“How?”
“He stopped to call Harold.”
Sheriff Mercer knelt beside her.
“What did you hear?”
Vanessa swallowed.
“They were arguing.”
“About what?”
“About the money.”
“Anything else?”
Vanessa looked at Dad.
“They said the third copy was still missing.”
My heart raced.
“What third copy?”
“The one Mom gave me.”
I stared at her.
“You have it?”
“I did.”
“Where is it?”
Vanessa shook her head.
“Grant took it.”
“When?”
“Years ago.”
Dad looked confused.
“Then why did you say you had it?”
“Because I made another copy.”
Sheriff Mercer leaned closer.
“Where?”
Vanessa reached into her shoe.
She removed a tiny folded piece of paper.
“Mom gave me this before she died.”
Dad stared.
“She trusted you?”
Vanessa nodded.
“She knew I was scared.”
“What did she tell you?”
Vanessa's eyes filled.
“She said if Grant ever tried to hurt you, I should give this to Natalie.”
I unfolded the paper.
There was an address.
Again.
But this time it wasn't a house.
It was a storage facility.
Unit 118.
Sheriff Mercer contacted the manager.
The unit was rented under a false name.
But the payment records led back to Harold.
We drove there immediately.
The facility was nearly empty.
Unit 118 opened with a key found in Vanessa's shoe.
Inside were boxes stacked from floor to ceiling.
Financial records.
Old photographs.
Medical files.
And a black suitcase.
Dad opened it.
Inside was Mom's wedding dress.
Her jewelry.
A stack of letters.
And a cassette recorder.
I pressed play.
Mom's voice filled the storage unit.
“If you're hearing this, then Harold has failed to destroy the evidence.”
Dad closed his eyes.
Mom continued.
“Thomas, I'm sorry.”
The recording paused.
Then she said something none of us expected.
“Grant knows he is not your son.”
Dad opened his eyes.
“He knows?”
Mom's voice continued.
“He learned it from Harold when he was eighteen. Grant believes you stole his place in the family. Harold has encouraged that belief because he wants Grant dependent on him.”
Vanessa began crying.
Mom continued.
“Harold has told Grant that if Thomas dies, everything will finally belong to him.”
Sheriff Mercer looked at Dad.
The recording continued.
“But there is another secret. Grant did not start stealing from Thomas. Harold did.”
Dad stared at the recorder.
Mom explained that Harold had been taking money from Dad’s business accounts for years.
He had used Grant’s debts as leverage.
He had manipulated Vanessa.
He had forged documents.
He had convinced everyone that Dad was too old and confused to notice.
Then came the final sentence.
“Harold is the one who arranged my death.”
The recording stopped.
Nobody spoke.
Dad looked toward the door.
“Then Grant isn't the mastermind.”
“No,” Sheriff Mercer said.
“He's the weapon.”
My phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
Harold's voice came through.
“Bring the suitcase.”
I froze.
He continued.
“Bring Thomas.”
“Where are you?”
“You know where.”
The line went dead.
Dad looked at me.
“What did he say?”
I told him.
Sheriff Mercer immediately ordered every exit monitored.
Then she looked at the storage-unit address.
“There's only one place nearby that matches that description.”
“What?”
“The old repair shop.”
Dad stared at her.
His old repair shop.
The place where Harold had first become his partner.
The place Dad had sold after Mom died.
The place where Grant had learned to work on engines.
Dad whispered:
“He wants us to come home.”
Click Here to continue read next: PART8: We Returned to Dad’s Old Repair Shop for the Final Evidence, but Harold Was Waiting With a Secret That Could Destroy More Than His Own Life
My Sister Announced Our Father’s Death Before Sunrise, but the Man She Buried Was Sitting Across From Me Planning Something She Never Expected
Part 7 of 16
