Chapter 4: My Mother's Hidden Signature
I spent the entire drive home staring at my mother's name on the back of the photograph.
Margaret Collins.
She had been dead for fourteen years, and until that night, I had believed she knew nothing about Andre Jackson's stolen design.
Now I wasn't sure what I believed about anyone.
Rain swept across the windshield as I turned into the driveway of my father's house, a sprawling brick property outside Nashville that Collins Development had built when the company was still thriving. Every window glowed beneath the porch lights. The oak trees my mother had planted lined the driveway, their branches bending in the wind.
My father was already inside.
I found him in his study, standing beside the fireplace with a glass of bourbon in his hand. The television was muted. On his desk lay the investment agreement Andre had given him, its pages scattered beneath a heavy brass lamp.
He didn't look up when I entered.
"Where did you get that photograph?""
"Andre gave it to me.""
"Of course he did.""
I placed it on the desk.
"Why is Mom's name on the back?""
My father took a slow drink.
"Your mother had nothing to do with that business.""
"Then why did Andre tell me to ask who paid Walter Bennett to keep the original?""
He set down the glass.
"Because he's trying to manipulate you.""
"Did Mom know about the drawings?""
"Emily, it's late.""
"Did she?""
He turned toward me, his expression hardening.
"Your mother was a good woman. She had no involvement in your school competition or the development proposal. Don't let that man drag her memory into his obsession.""
I looked at the papers on his desk.
"Then you won't mind if we look through the old office tomorrow.""
His jaw tightened.
"I haven't agreed to anything.""
"Andre said his attorneys would contact you.""
"And I said I haven't agreed.""
He reached for the photograph, but I pulled it away.
"Why are you so afraid of an old drawing?""
"I'm not afraid.""
"Then tell me the truth.""
My father slammed his palm against the desk.
"You have no idea what you're asking me to do!""
The sudden violence of his voice made me step back.
For a moment, he looked less like the polished businessman who had raised me and more like a man trapped in a room with no exits.
Then his expression changed.
He sat down, rubbed his forehead, and spoke quietly.
"Your mother made a mistake. A serious one. She believed that if the wrong people discovered what was happening, the entire family would be destroyed.""
"What was happening?""
He stared at the fireplace.
"She wanted to tell Bennett the truth about the drawings.""
My heart began pounding.
"What?""
"She found out your signature had been used on a document you didn't understand. She believed your father—" He stopped, visibly irritated with himself.
"She believed I had crossed a line.""
"She was right.""
He looked at me sharply.
"You weren't there. You don't know what Bennett was like. He wasn't some innocent businessman. He had political connections, access to lenders, and enough influence to ruin our company with a single phone call.""
"So Mom tried to expose him?""
"She threatened to.""
"And what happened?""
My father picked up his glass but didn't drink.
"She changed her mind.""
"Why?""
He said nothing.
I walked around the desk and opened the drawer where he kept old company records. Most of the folders had been replaced with digital copies years ago, but the bottom drawer still contained yellowed envelopes, faded contracts, and boxes of photographs.
I found a folder labeled RIVERFRONT DEVELOPMENT.
Inside were copies of invoices, planning documents, and a letter from Walter Bennett dated June 2006.
I read it twice.
The letter referred to a payment of forty thousand dollars described as a consulting fee.
The recipient was Margaret Collins.
My mother.
I felt the room tilt.
"Why did Bennett pay Mom forty thousand dollars?""
My father stood so abruptly that his chair rolled backward.
"Put that down.""
"Why?""
"Because you don't understand what you're looking at.""
"Then explain it!""
He reached for the letter.
I held it against my chest.
For several seconds, neither of us moved.
Then he said something that made my blood run cold.
"Your mother accepted that money to keep the original drawings out of the hands of the competition judges.""
I stared at him.
"You're lying.""
"Believe whatever you want.""
"Mom wouldn't do that.""
"She did.""
His voice cracked on the final word.
I remembered my mother sitting at the kitchen table when I was seventeen, carefully folding laundry while asking about school. I remembered her telling me that a person's character wasn't measured by how much money they made but by what they refused to do for it.
She had been the most honest person I knew.
Or perhaps that was simply the version of her I'd needed.
"Where's the original now?"" I asked.
My father looked toward the hallway.
"I don't know.""
"You're lying again.""
He picked up his glass.
"Get out of my study, Emily.""
I stood there for another moment, waiting for him to explain himself.
He didn't.
I took the letter and left.
Upstairs, I locked myself in my childhood bedroom and called Andre.
He answered on the fourth ring.
"Emily?""
"I found something.""
He was silent for a beat.
"What did you find?""
"A letter from Walter Bennett. He paid my mother forty thousand dollars in 2006.""
I heard a chair move on the other end.
"Did your father explain why?""
"He said she accepted the money to keep your original drawings away from the judges.""
Another silence.
Then Andre asked, "Do you believe him?""
"I don't know what to believe anymore.""
"Does the letter identify what the payment was for?""
"It says consulting fee. Nothing else.""
"Can you send me a photograph?""
I took pictures of every page and sent them to him.
While the files uploaded, I noticed something written in pencil at the bottom of the letter.
A reference number.
MB-17.
"Andre, there's a handwritten code on the letter. MB-17.""
He went quiet.
"Say that again.""
"MB-17.""
"Don't touch anything else in that folder.""
"Why?""
"Because I've seen that code before.""
My grip tightened around the phone.
"Where?""
"In my mother's old notebook. She wrote it beside a name, but I never understood what it meant.""
"What name?""
Andre hesitated.
Then he answered.
"Daniel Brooks.""
I knew that name.
Daniel Brooks had been my mother's attorney.
He had also been the man who handled her estate after she died.
"Andre," I whispered, "Daniel Brooks is still alive.""
"I know.""
"He's my father's attorney now.""
The line fell silent.
Then Andre spoke in a voice I had never heard from him before.
"Emily, listen carefully. Do not tell your father what you've found. Don't contact Brooks. And don't go to that old office alone tomorrow.""
"Why?""
"Because if your mother was involved in hiding the original, she may have left something else behind.""
Before I could respond, a noise came from the hallway.
Footsteps.
My bedroom door handle turned.
I had locked it.
Someone tried again.
Then my father spoke through the wood.
"Emily, open this door.""
I looked at the letter in my hand.
The footsteps moved away.
A moment later, I heard the unmistakable sound of my father's study door closing downstairs.
Then came the scrape of furniture.
He was searching for something.
And when I looked back at the letter, I noticed a final line at the bottom that I hadn't seen before.
May you like
A line partially hidden beneath the fold.
*Second payment authorized upon destruction of original.*
