Chapter 3 - SOMEONE CAME BACK FOR THE EVIDENCEDad drove to Hart Restoration with Detective Monroe.
I stayed at the hospital because the doctor refused to discharge me until my second neurological check.
That was probably fortunate.
If I had seen what happened at the shop that night, I might have done something stupid.
Instead, I sat in a hospital room with a bag of ice against my face and watched my phone fill with messages.
Most were from numbers I recognized.
Julian’s mother.
Julian’s sister.
Two bridesmaids.
His college friend Trevor.
The messages started politely.
Please don't make permanent decisions based on one emotional night.
Then:
Julian says you had been drinking. Is that true?
Then:
You know how much his career could suffer if you exaggerate this.
And finally, from his mother, Evelyn Cross:
Families handle private matters privately. Call me before this goes further.
I read that message three times.
Then blocked her.
That was the first small decision that felt like mine.
My phone rang immediately from an unknown number.
I almost ignored it.
Something made me answer.
“Hello?”
A woman spoke quickly.
“Is this Lena?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Rachel Boone. I used to work for Julian.”
I sat straighter.
“How did you get my number?”
“Your number was in his emergency contacts. I kept it.”
“Why?”
Silence.
Then:
“Because I knew eventually somebody might need to warn you.”
The hair on my arms rose.
“Warn me about what?”
“I can't explain over the phone.”
“Then don't call me at midnight.”
“I saw the police outside his apartment.”
My heart jumped.
“He's been arrested?”
“No. Not yet. He called his lawyer. His father sent a car.”
Of course.
“What do you know?”
Rachel lowered her voice.
“Did you find the Hart acquisition file?”
I stopped breathing.
“How do you know about that?”
“Because I built the first version.”
My fingers tightened around the phone.
Rachel continued.
“I thought it was a legitimate property proposal. Julian told us your father wanted to retire and you supported selling.”
“I never supported selling.”
“I know that now.”
“What was the final phase?”
Silence.
“What does ‘final phase after marriage’ mean?”
Another pause.
“Rachel?”
“It means the ownership structure changes once he has access to your trust.”
My stomach turned.
“What trust?”
“You really don't know?”
I closed my eyes.
Apparently Julian had known things about my family that even I didn't.
Before Rachel could explain, a nurse entered and pointed toward the phone.
“Two minutes.”
I nodded.
“Rachel, tell me.”
“Your uncle left you shares in Hart Restoration.”
I laughed weakly.
“No. My father owns the company.”
“Not all of it.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Ask him.”
“Why would Julian—”
Rachel interrupted.
“Don't ask Julian anything. Don't meet him. Don't meet his parents. And if you've copied the acquisition file, make another copy immediately.”
“It may be damaged.”
“Then recover it.”
“Why?”
Her next words erased whatever hope I still had that the night in the garage had been only a horrible relationship turning violent.
“Because there are forged documents in that folder worth more than forty million dollars.”
The call ended.
My father returned at 2:06 a.m.
One look at his face told me the break-in was real.
“What happened?”
He removed his coat.
“Rear door was forced.”
“Was anything stolen?”
“Somebody went straight to the roadster.”
My stomach tightened.
“The flash drive?”
“The glove compartment was open.”
I covered my mouth.
Dad sat down.
“They tore the seats.”
“What?”
“They knew it could be hidden somewhere else.”
“Who?”
“Camera didn't catch the face.”
“Julian?”
“He was at his lawyer’s office downtown when the alarm triggered.”
“Then someone helped him.”
Dad nodded.
“Looks that way.”
“Did they find it?”
He hesitated.
“Lena, was the flash drive definitely in the glove compartment?”
“Yes. I wrapped it in a tissue and pushed it behind the registration holder.”
Dad looked toward the door.
“Then they probably have it.”
I closed my eyes.
The evidence was gone.
The car was wrecked.
Julian had lawyers.
His family had money.
And now someone working with him had broken into Dad’s shop before dawn.
I felt the old hopelessness crawling back.
That feeling Julian had spent months teaching me.
You can't win.
You need me.
Nobody will believe you.
Dad watched me.
“Don't do that.”
“What?”
“Disappear.”
I looked at him.
“I'm right here.”
“No, you're not.”
He tapped his chest.
“You go somewhere in here when you get scared. Your mother used to do the same thing.”
My mother had died when I was sixteen.
Ovarian cancer.
Two years of watching the strongest woman I knew pretend pain was merely inconvenience.
Dad reached for my hand.
“We lost one copy.”
“What if it was the only copy?”
“You're alive.”
“Dad, this isn't just about me anymore.”
“It is to me.”
“The company—”
“Is steel, brick, paperwork and tools.”
“And Uncle Mateo’s car?”
His expression changed.
I regretted asking.
Dad looked down.
“Lena, listen carefully.”
I waited.
“If somebody gave me a choice tonight between that car exactly as Mateo left it and you walking through my door with one scratch less on your face, I would melt the car myself.”
Tears blurred my vision.
“I thought you loved it more than anything.”
“I loved what it reminded me of.”
He squeezed my hand.
“I still have the person I'm trying to protect.”
That was when I told him about Rachel Boone.
When I mentioned the trust, Dad became very still.
“She told you.”
“So it's true?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't I know?”
“Because Mateo made me promise you wouldn't receive control until thirty.”
“My birthday is next month.”
Dad nodded.
Something cold settled in my stomach.
The wedding had been scheduled for two weeks after my thirtieth birthday.
I had always thought Julian chose the date because autumn was my favorite season.
“How much?”
Dad hesitated.
“Twenty-six percent of Hart Restoration. Plus Mateo’s investment account.”
“How much?”
“Roughly twelve million dollars.”
I stared at him.
Julian’s obsession with the wedding suddenly felt different.
The rushed contracts.
The prenuptial arguments.
His insistence that marriage meant “combining everything.”
His anger when I asked my own lawyer to review documents.
Dad continued.
“Combined with your shares and a partnership clause, a spouse could gain certain voting rights under the old agreement if you signed additional proxies.”
“Proxies.”
“Yes.”
I remembered the forged documents in Julian’s file.
“He was going to forge them.”
“Maybe.”
“No.”
I shook my head.
“He already did.”
Dad stood.
“Then we call our attorney in the morning.”
“He has the evidence.”
“Maybe.”
“What do you mean?”
Dad looked at me.
For the first time all night, something almost like confidence appeared in his expression.
“You said you hid a flash drive in Mateo’s glove compartment.”
“Yes.”
“Behind the registration.”
“Yes.”
Dad slowly smiled.
“Mateo never kept the registration in the glove box.”
I frowned.
“What?”
“He didn't trust locks.”
“Then where—”
Dad interrupted.
“That compartment has a false back.”
My mouth fell open.
“The panel you pushed the drive behind?”
“Yes?”
“That's not the back of the glove compartment.”
He stood.
“It's the door to a hidden storage space Mateo built himself twenty years ago.”
My heartbeat accelerated.
“Dad…”
“The person who broke into the shop destroyed the seats and emptied the glove box.”
He took out his phone.
“But they didn't remove that panel.”
I stared at him.
“You think it's still there?”
“I think we’re about to find out.”
By sunrise, Detective Monroe had obtained permission to inspect the roadster as part of the evidence collection.
At 6:41 a.m., wearing gloves, Dad removed four tiny screws disguised beneath the glove compartment trim.
A narrow panel dropped open.
Behind it sat a tissue.
Inside the tissue was my black flash drive.
Julian had wrecked a priceless car.
Sent someone to break into the garage.
And still failed to destroy the one thing he feared most.
Dad handed the drive to Detective Monroe.
She sealed it inside an evidence bag.
“Whatever is on this,” she said, “we preserve it before anybody opens it.”
I nodded.
Then Dad pointed toward the damaged glove compartment.
“There’s something else.”
A thin black wire hung from beneath the dashboard.
Detective Monroe leaned closer.
“What?”
Dad followed the wire.
His face changed.
“That shouldn't be there.”
He reached behind the dash and carefully exposed a tiny electronic module.
I had never seen it before.
Neither had Dad.
Detective Monroe photographed it.
“What is it?”
Dad stared at the device.
“A tracker.”
My blood ran cold.
Julian had not merely been planning to steal my inheritance.
Someone had been tracking that roadster.
May you like
And when police traced the serial number of the device later that morning, they discovered it had been purchased six months earlier.
Using a corporate account belonging to Cross Development.
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