Chapter 8 - What Nolan Never Told Me
We barely made it into the courthouse conference room before I shut the door and faced my brother.
“What did he mean?”
Nolan looked at Camille.
She looked away.
That was all the answer I needed.
“You know too.”
“Lena—”
“No. I have spent six years being managed by people who decided I couldn’t handle the truth. You do not get to join that club.”
Nolan sank into a chair.
“I was trying to protect you.”
I laughed bitterly. “Of course you were.”
He flinched.
Good.
“Tell me.”
He rubbed both hands over his face.
“Dad did not die at home.”
I stared.
“Yes, he did. Garrick found him in the study.”
“No. Garrick said he found him in the study.”
My pulse began to pound.
“Where did Dad die?”
“In a parking garage downtown.”
The room felt too small.
“What?”
“Dad called me the night he died. He said he had proof Garrick was diverting money through church-linked entities. He wanted me to meet him at the Mercer building.”
“You were there?”
“Yes.”
“Then why did the police say he died at home?”
“They didn’t.”
I stared at him.
“Garrick told you that.”
Memories hit me in fragments. Garrick answering my phone. Garrick telling me not to go to the hospital because Dad was already gone. Garrick handling funeral arrangements while I sat drugged with grief. Miriam telling me, “Some details only create more pain.”
“What happened in the garage?”
Nolan’s voice lowered.
“When I arrived, Dad was on the ground beside his car. He was conscious, barely. Garrick was there.”
I gripped the table.
“You saw Garrick?”
“Yes.”
“What was he doing?”
“Standing over him.”
Camille closed her eyes.
“Did you call 911?”
“Immediately.”
“What did Dad say?”
Nolan’s eyes filled.
“He said, ‘Don’t let him take Lena.’”
My knees weakened.
I sat down.
“Did Garrick hurt him?”
“I don’t know.”
“You were there.”
“I arrived after whatever happened.”
“What did Garrick say?”
“He said Dad collapsed during an argument.”
“And you believed him?”
“No.”
“Then why wasn’t he arrested?”
“Because the autopsy showed a massive cardiac event. No obvious trauma. No poison on the standard screen. Nothing criminal could be established.”
I stared at my brother.
“So where is your secret?”
He looked down.
“I took something from Dad’s car before the police arrived.”
“What?”
“A flash drive.”
Camille said quietly, “Nolan.”
He ignored her.
“Dad had it in his hand. Garrick didn’t see it. I put it in my pocket.”
“What was on it?”
“Financial records. Transfers. Names. Copies of emails between Garrick and Rebecca. Partial records from the Hopewell Fund.”
“Why didn’t you turn it over?”
“Because one of the names on it belonged to a detective.”
Detective Hill, standing outside the glass door, was visible through the blinds.
I lowered my voice. “Who?”
“Nolan.” Camille’s warning was sharper now.
He looked at me.
“Marcus Hill.”
My stomach dropped.
“No.”
“The records showed payments to an entity connected to his brother.”
“Does that mean Hill was involved?”
“I never proved it.”
“Then why is he investigating now?”
“I don’t know.”
I stood and paced despite the pain.
“So you spent five years secretly investigating Garrick because you didn’t trust the police?”
“Yes.”
“And you broke into my house three weeks ago.”
“Yes.”
“And you planted evidence for me.”
“I left evidence that belonged to you.”
“Without telling me.”
“You wouldn’t speak to me.”
“Because Garrick manipulated me.”
“I know.”
“And you decided the solution was more manipulation.”
That landed.
Nolan looked away.
Camille stepped between us emotionally, if not physically.
“He made mistakes. But he also kept copies of everything, hired investigators, and preserved records that may be the only reason you can prove what happened.”
I turned on her. “How long have you known?”
“Three years.”
I laughed in disbelief.
“Wonderful. Anyone else?”
“No.”
A knock sounded.
Detective Hill opened the door.
“We need to move,” he said. “Garrick left the building before deputies could speak to him.”
Nolan’s expression tightened.
Hill noticed.
“What?”
No one answered.
I looked at him differently now.
He saw it.
“Mrs. Vale?”
“Did your brother ever receive money from the Hopewell Fund?”
The detective went completely still.
Camille swore under her breath.
Hill shut the door behind him.
“Where did you hear that?”
“Answer me.”
His jaw flexed.
“Yes.”
Nolan stepped forward.
“How much?”
“Thirty thousand dollars.”
“For what?”
“My brother had leukemia.”
The room fell silent.
Hill continued. “He was uninsured. Hopewell paid for treatment.”
“But Hopewell never helped patients,” I said.
“That’s what you were told.”
“Rebecca said it.”
“Rebecca is a suspect in identity theft and financial fraud.”
Nolan folded his arms. “Convenient.”
Hill faced him. “You want the whole truth? I investigated Hopewell four years ago. I found irregularities. Then my brother got sick, and Miriam Vale personally arranged money for his treatment.”
“And you closed the case?”
Hill’s eyes hardened.
“I recused myself.”
“After taking money.”
“After my brother accepted charitable assistance I didn’t ask for.”
“That bought silence.”
“No. It bought chemotherapy.”
The anger in Hill’s voice stopped us.
Then he reached into his jacket and placed an old evidence photograph on the table.
It showed my father’s car in the parking garage the night he died.
On the concrete beside the driver’s door lay a small blue plastic cap.
“Do you know what that is?” Hill asked.
Dr. Shah had joined us after the hearing. She leaned closer.
“It looks like a cap from an injectable medication vial.”
Hill nodded.
“It was collected at the scene and logged. Then it disappeared from evidence.”
Nolan stared at him.
“Who signed it out?”
Hill’s voice went flat.
“Bethany Vale.”
My chest tightened.
Bethany had been a nurse even then.
“What was in the vial?” I asked.
“We don’t know. The vial itself was never found.”
Dr. Shah looked at the photograph again.
“Can you identify the manufacturer from the cap?”
“Maybe.”
She enlarged the image on her phone.
Then her face changed.
“This marking was used on potassium chloride emergency stock at the time.”
I heard Nolan inhale.
I knew almost nothing about medicine, but I understood from everyone’s expressions that the answer mattered.
“Could that cause a heart attack?” I asked.
Dr. Shah chose her words carefully. “A dangerous dose of potassium can cause fatal cardiac rhythm disturbances. But a cap on a garage floor proves nothing by itself.”
Hill nodded.
“Exactly. Which is why we need evidence.”
My prepaid phone buzzed.
Another unknown number.
This time there was a video attachment.
The thumbnail showed my father.
Alive.
May you like
Sitting behind his desk.
And next to him stood Miriam Vale.
