Chapter 6 - The Accident
The driver who hit me was named Patrick Lowe.
Forty-eight.
Private investigator.
Not hitman.
Not assassin.
That mattered.
He admitted following me.
Jonathan hired him.
His instructions:
Find out whether Emily took documents to Angela Morales.
Do not approach.
Do not interfere.
At the intersection, Patrick looked down at his phone.
Ran the light.
Hit my car.
Negligence.
Not attempted murder.
I believed that only after traffic footage confirmed it.
Jonathan had not ordered my injury.
But his surveillance caused circumstances that led to it.
He accepted no responsibility at first.
Then police reminded him whose money paid Patrick.
The distinction became harder.
Meanwhile, Angela arrived at my house with officers.
My camera upload had alerted her before I even reached the safe.
She had already called emergency services.
Why hadn't police arrived sooner?
Because the garage incident unfolded faster than I realized.
Pain distorted time.
I had been locked inside for twenty-six minutes.
Not hours.
Mark and Eleanor were questioned.
The security footage was devastating.
Medication withholding.
Coercion.
Physical mistreatment.
Confinement.
Nobody needed dramatic interpretation.
The recording spoke for itself.
I returned to the hospital that evening because my surgeon wanted new imaging after the fall.
Thankfully, the repair remained intact.
I stayed overnight.
Mark tried to visit.
I refused.
Eleanor tried.
Absolutely not.
Thomas waited in the hallway.
I eventually allowed him in.
Not because I forgave him.
Because I needed information.
“Why did Lydia have copies hidden in my house?”
Thomas explained that five years earlier, before her death, Lydia became suspicious someone was altering trust records.
She gave him originals.
He digitized them.
Then she died from pancreatic cancer.
Natural.
No mystery.
No poison.
No convenient villain.
But after her death, someone broke into Thomas's storage unit.
Copies disappeared.
He realized Eleanor was still searching.
So he withdrew completely again.
I stared.
“You could have called me.”
“Yes.”
“You keep saying yes.”
“Because there isn't a defense.”
That was almost enough to keep me listening.
Then Angela entered.
She placed a file on my bed.
“Emily, we found the lender.”
The company that issued the $1.6 million loan against the trust parcel.
Name:
Briarwood Capital.
Owner:
Jonathan Hale.
I closed my eyes.
Of course.
Jonathan funded Mark's company using my trust property as collateral.
If Mark defaulted, Jonathan could seize the parcel.
Then potentially trigger the development option against my main building.
Elegant.
Predatory.
Possibly illegal if the trust documents were forged.
Angela continued:
“But Jonathan isn't the beneficial owner.”
I opened my eyes.
“Who is?”
Angela looked at Thomas.
His expression changed before she spoke.
Beneficial owner of Briarwood Capital:
May you like
Thomas Reed.
My father.
