Chapter 15 - The Dead Uncle Who Called
Peter Cole had been dead for five years.
I attended his funeral.
I carried his casket.
I watched my mother cry over the closed coffin.
At least I thought I did.
“Say that again,” I told Margaret.
“Peter is alive.”
Brooke laughed.
A sharp, panicked sound.
“No.”
Margaret looked at her.
“I spoke to him eight months ago.”
“That is impossible.”
“Apparently not.”
I turned to Samuel.
He looked sick.
“You knew?”
“No.”
“Do not lie to me.”
“I didn’t.”
“You handled the trust. Peter was co-trustee.”
“Yes.”
“You accepted a death certificate.”
“Yes.”
“Did you verify it?”
Samuel went quiet.
Marcus swore.
“Where did the death certificate come from?”
“Lorraine.”
I laughed.
Of course it did.
“Was there a body?”
Brooke asked.
I thought back to the funeral.
Closed casket.
Lorraine said Peter had been badly injured in an accident while traveling in Mexico.
The service happened quickly.
He had no wife.
No children.
No one questioned it.
I felt stupid.
Again.
“What did Peter say to you?” I asked Margaret.
“He wanted me to resign as successor trustee.”
“Why?”
“He said the trust needed restructuring.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Then why did he fake his death?”
“I don’t know.”
Celia whispered, “I might.”
We turned.
She looked ashamed.
“Peter owed money.”
“To who?”
“People connected to development deals.”
“What people?”
“I don’t know names.”
“Did Dad know?”
“Yes. Peter was always the reckless one.”
I remembered Uncle Peter differently.
Funny.
Loud.
The uncle who gave us twenty-dollar bills at Christmas and took us to baseball games.
Memory suddenly felt unreliable.
Margaret’s phone buzzed.
A text.
One address.
No message.
Marcus looked at it.
“Industrial park in Mesa.”
I said, “We send police.”
Margaret nodded.
She forwarded the number and address to the detective.
Thirty minutes later, we received a response.
Officers went to the location.
Empty warehouse.
No Peter.
But there was something else.
A white storage box sat in the middle of the floor.
Inside were copies of financial records.
And a note.
ETHAN DESERVES THE TRUTH. ASK LORRAINE WHO DROVE DANIEL’S CAR HOME THE NIGHT BEFORE HE DIED.
I read the note several times.
Brooke whispered, “What does that mean?”
Nobody knew.
Celia suddenly sat down.
Her face had gone gray.
I looked at her.
“You know.”
She shook her head.
“Celia.”
“I don’t.”
“You reacted.”
She covered her mouth.
Margaret said quietly, “Tell him.”
Celia looked at me.
“Daniel left his car at my house.”
The room went silent.
“When?”
“The night before he died.”
“Why?”
“He had been drinking. I wouldn’t let him drive.”
“Who took it home?”
Celia began crying.
“I thought it was Peter.”
My skin went cold.
“Thought?”
“Daniel called him.”
“And?”
“A man came.”
“You didn’t see him?”
“It was dark. I stayed inside because I was afraid Lorraine might follow.”
“Did Dad go with him?”
“No. Daniel slept at my house.”
I stared at her.
“Dad spent the night with you before he died.”
“Yes.”
“Then how did he get the car the next morning?”
“Peter brought it back.”
“You just said you thought Peter picked it up.”
“I never saw the first driver’s face.”
“Did Peter say he collected it?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“At seven the next morning.”
“Was anything wrong with the car?”
“Daniel said the brake pedal felt soft.”
My chest tightened.
“What did he do?”
“He said he would take it to Luis after court.”
“Court?”
Celia closed her eyes.
“He was filing the divorce papers.”
The tape.
The threat.
You will never make it to that courthouse.
My father died on the way there.
I stood.
The room tilted.
Natalie took my arm.
“Sit.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
“I said I’m fine.”
She stepped back.
I heard the sharpness in my own voice.
Immediately, shame replaced anger.
“I’m sorry.”
She nodded but did not say it was okay.
Good.
Marcus paced.
“If Peter picked up the car and returned it, he may know who tampered with it.”
“Or he did it,” Brooke whispered.
I looked at Samuel.
“Was Peter financially tied to Lorraine?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“After Daniel died, they jointly managed several estate matters.”
“That means nothing.”
Samuel looked down.
“Peter received two hundred thousand dollars from Lorraine six weeks after the funeral.”
Brooke gasped.
“For what?”
“Recorded as debt repayment.”
“Was there a debt?”
“I never saw documentation.”
I stared at him.
“You never thought that mattered?”
“I did.”
“And?”
“I failed to act.”
His new favorite truth.
My phone buzzed.
A news alert.
Not about us.
At least not at first glance.
LOCAL DEVELOPMENT FIRM HALTS TUCSON SOLAR LAND ACQUISITIONS AMID INTERNAL REVIEW.
Saguaro Infrastructure.
I opened it.
The company announced Aaron Vale had been placed on administrative leave.
No reason given.
Marcus looked over my shoulder.
“This is moving.”
“Good.”
“Not necessarily. Pressure makes people stupid.”
Brooke said, “Or desperate.”
At five, Dr. Shah called.
Natalie’s blood counts were lower than expected but not dangerous.
She needed hydration the next day.
We shifted instantly from dead fathers and fake deaths to anti-nausea schedules and temperature checks.
That was our life now.
Crime thriller at one end of the hallway.
Cancer at the other.
At ten, I checked the exterior cameras Marcus had installed.
Nothing.
At eleven, Natalie finally fell asleep.
At midnight, Brooke screamed.
I ran downstairs.
The patio door stood open.
A man was in the kitchen.
Tall.
Gray beard.
Weathered face.
Older than I remembered.
But I knew him.
“Uncle Peter?”
Brooke backed against the wall.
The man lifted both hands.
“Do not call police yet.”
I stared at the dead man from my childhood.
“You have ten seconds.”
He looked at me.
“Your mother didn’t kill Daniel.”
My jaw tightened.
“Then who did?”
Peter’s face broke.
“I did.”
Nobody moved toward him.
Peter stood in the middle of the kitchen with rainwater darkening the shoulders of his jacket even though it had not rained in Scottsdale for days. Later, I would wonder where that water came from. At that moment, I barely noticed.
Brooke whispered, “You don’t get to say that and stop.”
Peter nodded.
“I know.”
Natalie reached for my arm.
Not to restrain me.
Just to remind me she was there.
I looked at the man I had once believed was buried beneath a stone with his name carved into it.
“If you are lying,” I said, “this is the cruelest thing anyone in this family has done.”
Peter’s eyes filled.
“I wish I were lying.”
Then he reached slowly into his coat.
Marcus stepped forward.
Peter stopped.
“It’s not a weapon.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“A confession.”
May you like
He pulled out a folded sheet of paper.
“But the paper is not the part you need to hear.”
