Chapter 5: The Locked Room on Charlotte Avenue
At 7:15 the next morning, someone knocked on my front door.
I hadn't slept.
I'd spent most of the night photographing every document in the riverfront folder and sending copies to a private email account. At dawn, I called in sick to my job at a marketing agency, then drove to a coffee shop three miles from my father's house to wait for Andre's message.
Instead, I found Daniel Brooks standing on the front porch.
He was seventy now, with silver hair, expensive glasses, and the same careful smile I remembered from family Christmas dinners.
He had represented my father for as long as I could remember.
He'd also written my mother's will.
"Emily," he said warmly.
"May I come in?""
I remained in the doorway.
"Why are you here?""
"Your father asked me to speak with you.""
"About what?""
"Last night's unfortunate misunderstanding.""
He glanced at the street, then lowered his voice.
"Your father is very distressed. I think it would be best if we discussed things before this gets out of hand.""
I almost laughed.
"Did you come here to discuss a twenty-year-old design theft?""
His smile disappeared for half a second.
Then it returned.
"I came to protect you from making a mistake.""
I folded my arms.
"What mistake?""
"Giving confidential company documents to a potential investor without understanding their legal significance.""
I stared at him.
"I haven't given Andre anything except photographs of a letter.""
"That may be enough to create serious problems.""
"For whom?""
Brooks adjusted his glasses.
"Your father is under considerable pressure. If this matter becomes public, the consequences could affect hundreds of people.""
It was the same argument my father had used the night before.
Protect the employees.
Protect the company.
Protect the family.
Everyone wanted me to protect something.
Nobody wanted to discuss what had happened to Andre.
"Did you know my mother received forty thousand dollars from Walter Bennett?"" I asked.
Brooks went completely still.
It lasted less than a second.
But I saw it.
"I have no knowledge of such a payment.""
"Then why did your name appear beside the code MB-17 in a notebook belonging to Andre's mother?""
His eyes sharpened.
"What notebook?""
I had made a mistake.
I could see it in his face.
Brooks stepped inside before I could stop him and closed the door behind him.
"Emily, I want you to listen very carefully. Your mother was a compassionate woman who sometimes became involved in matters she didn't fully understand. Whatever documents you have found, you must not draw conclusions from them.""
"Did you represent Walter Bennett in 2006?""
"I represented several clients at the time.""
"Did you handle a payment to my mother?""
He straightened his jacket.
"This conversation is over.""
He walked to the door, then paused.
"One more thing. If Andre Jackson asks you to sign anything, refuse. His intentions are not as straightforward as you believe.""
"How do you know what his intentions are?""
Brooks opened the door.
"Because I know men like him.""
He left without another word.
I stood in the hallway, shaking with anger.
Then my phone rang.
Andre.
"Did someone come to your house?"" he asked.
I frowned.
"How did you know?""
"Because Daniel Brooks called my attorney twenty minutes ago. He requested that I withdraw my investment proposal and destroy all documents related to the riverfront project.""
I closed my eyes.
"He was just here.""
"Did he threaten you?""
"Not exactly.""
"Emily, men like Brooks rarely threaten people directly. They prefer to make you believe the consequences are your own fault.""
I looked through the window.
Brooks's black sedan had disappeared around the corner.
"What do we do now?""
Andre answered immediately.
"We go to Charlotte Avenue.""
At nine o'clock, we met outside the old Collins Development office.
The building had once been an elegant two-story structure with a stone entrance and tall windows overlooking the street. Now, half the windows were boarded up, and weeds grew through cracks in the parking lot.
A faded sign hung above the door.
COLLINS DEVELOPMENT — EST. 1989.
My father had moved the company's headquarters downtown eight years earlier, leaving this building to store archived records and unused equipment.
Andre stood beside his car, wearing a charcoal suit and carrying a leather briefcase.
"You came alone?"" he asked.
"Yes.""
"Did you bring the letter?""
I handed him a sealed envelope containing copies.
He examined the pages without touching the originals I'd kept at home.
"Good.""
"Do you think we'll find the drawing?""
"I think your mother wanted someone to find something.""
He glanced at the building.
"Whether it's the drawing or something else, we won't know until we look.""
My father's attorney had warned me not to sign anything, but Andre hadn't asked me to.
Instead, his lawyer had emailed a formal inspection notice to Collins Development's registered office, giving the company an opportunity to attend. My father had ignored it.
The notice also documented the existing state of the property and restricted the inspection to archived records relevant to the disputed project.
Everything was lawful.
Everything was documented.
And still, I felt as though I were breaking into my own family's secrets.
We entered through the main door using a key provided by the company's facilities manager.
The air smelled of dust, damp plaster, and old paper.
Andre switched on a flashlight.
"Where was your father's office?""
"Upstairs. At the end of the hall.""
We climbed the narrow staircase.
The office looked smaller than I remembered. The desk was gone, but a heavy wooden cabinet remained against the far wall.
I walked toward it.
"This is where I saw the drawings.""
Andre examined the cabinet.
"Is it locked?""
I tried the handle.
It opened.
Inside were dozens of cardboard boxes, each labeled with a year and a project name.
We spent the next forty minutes searching through files.
Invoices.
Building permits.
Photographs of construction sites.
Correspondence with suppliers.
Nothing related to Andre's design.
Then I found a box labeled M. COLLINS — PERSONAL.
My hands trembled as I lifted it down.
Inside were my mother's old notebooks, envelopes, and several cassette tapes from the years before she died.
At the bottom lay a small leather-bound diary.
I opened it.
Most of the pages contained ordinary entries about family dinners, charity events, and my father's business trips.
Then I reached June 14, 2006.
The handwriting became cramped and hurried.
Richard says the Bennett agreement must be completed by Friday. Daniel insists the payment is necessary. I asked whether the boy's family knows. Nobody answered me.
I stopped reading.
Andre stood beside me.
"What does it say?""
I handed him the diary.
He read the entry twice.
Then he turned the page.
*I saw the original design today. Richard says it was given to him voluntarily. I know that's not true.
Emily has been crying because she believes she helped betray a friend. I must find a way to correct this before it is too late.*
My eyes filled with tears.
My mother had known.
She'd known I'd been manipulated, and she'd tried to fix it.
I turned another page.
The next entry was dated June 19.
Daniel has agreed to keep the original safe until I can arrange a meeting with Walter. He says nobody will be harmed if the documents remain hidden. I don't trust him anymore.
Below that was a single line.
If anything happens to me, look beneath the foundation model.
I read it aloud.
Andre immediately looked around the room.
"Foundation model?""
I remembered the architectural models my father kept in his office. Most had been discarded when the company moved, but there was one large model of the riverfront development that had stood on a shelf beside the window.
The shelf was empty.
I searched the floor, the cupboards, and the storage boxes.
Nothing.
Then Andre pointed toward a locked closet at the back of the office.
"What's in there?""
"Old equipment. Maybe spare chairs.""
The lock was rusted.
Andre called the facilities manager, who arrived fifteen minutes later with a set of keys. The third key opened the door.
Inside stood a collection of discarded architectural models beneath sheets of plastic.
And at the back, partly buried under a stack of blueprints, was the riverfront model.
I recognized the miniature glass towers and curved entrance.
Andre crouched beside it.
"This is the original scale model.""
He examined the base.
There were four screws beneath the wooden platform. One had been replaced with a newer brass screw.
I watched as he carefully loosened it.
A thin metal compartment opened beneath the model.
Inside was a folded document wrapped in waxed paper.
My heart hammered.
Andre unfolded it.
The paper contained a signature, a date, and a short statement written in my mother's hand.
*I, Margaret Collins, confirm that Walter Bennett received the original design from Richard Collins on June 8, 2006, and that the subsequent payment was made in exchange for my silence.*
Beneath the statement was another signature.
Daniel Brooks.
And below his name was a handwritten note.
*The second original is not here. Richard knows where it is.*
I looked at Andre.
"There's another copy?""
He nodded slowly.
"Or something even more important.""
A sound echoed from downstairs.
A door slamming.
We both froze.
Footsteps moved across the first floor.
Then a man's voice called up the staircase.
"Emily?""
My father.
May you like
He had come to stop us.
And from the sound of the heavy object he was dragging across the floor, he hadn't come alone.
