Chapter 7 - THE NIGHT MY FATHER DIED|
I stared at Eleanor's message.
For the first time since the funeral, Preston looked genuinely uncertain about his mother.
“What happened that night?” I asked.
He put the phone face down.
“Nothing.”
“Preston.”
“I mean nothing that I thought mattered.”
I kept my voice steady.
“Tell me what you remember.”
He rubbed both hands over his face.
“Dad had been arguing with Mom for days.”
“About the foundation?”
“Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
Preston hesitated.
“He wanted to remove her from the board.”
I nodded.
“Did he say why?”
“He said there were financial discrepancies.”
“Did he show you evidence?”
“No.”
“Did you ask to see it?”
Preston looked ashamed.
“I accused him of losing his judgment.”
The confession hung between us.
“He was furious,” Preston continued.
“He said I had become careless with money that wasn't mine.”
I knew how much those words would have hurt.
Dad rarely raised his voice.
When he did, it was usually because he believed someone had abandoned a responsibility.
“What happened next?”
“Vale came over.”
I sat straighter.
“Richard Vale was at the house?”
Preston nodded.
“Mom called him.”
“Why?”
“She said Dad was confused about the accounts.”
“What time?”
“Around eight.”
“Then what?”
“They went into Dad's study.”
“All three of them?”
“Yes.”
“Did you hear anything?”
Preston looked toward the window.
“Dad told Vale he wanted an independent audit.”
“What did Vale say?”
“I couldn't hear everything.”
“Try.”
He swallowed.
“He said something about consequences.”
I felt a chill.
“Consequences for whom?”
“I don't know.”
Preston's voice broke slightly.
“I left around nine-thirty.”
“Was Dad alive?”
“Yes.”
“Was he conscious?”
“Of course.”
“Did he seem ill?”
“He looked angry, not sick.”
I waited.
“Did you speak to him before leaving?”
Preston nodded.
“What did he say?”
My brother stared at the table.
“He told me that being his son didn't give me the right to ignore the truth.”
His eyes filled.
“I told him he should have been more like a father and less like a commanding officer.”
I said nothing.
“He looked at me for a long time,” Preston whispered.
“Then he said, ‘Someday you'll understand that love doesn't excuse dishonesty.’”
Preston wiped his eyes angrily.
“Those were the last words he ever said to me.”
For a moment, all I saw was my little brother.
Not the man who had insulted me at the funeral.
Not the foundation administrator who had apparently signed questionable approvals.
Just a grieving son who had discovered that his last conversation with his father had been cruel.
“What happened after you left?” I asked softly.
“Mom called me just after midnight.”
“Why?”
“She said Dad had collapsed.”
“Had she called an ambulance?”
“She said she had.”
“What time did emergency services arrive?”
“I don't know.”
That gap mattered.
I wrote down the details.
Preston watched me.
“You think Mom did something.”
“I think there are questions nobody has answered.”
“She wouldn't kill him.”
“I hope you're right.”
He looked away.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“If Dad thought I was involved in the missing money, why didn't he go to the police?”
“I don't know.”
Preston stared at the untouched coffee between his hands.
“Maybe he was protecting me.”
The thought hurt us both.
Because it sounded exactly like Dad.
He would have tried to protect his children even while demanding accountability.
But protection could become dangerous when someone else exploited it.
I asked Preston to preserve Eleanor's message and any communications from the night Dad died.
He agreed.
Then he told me something else.
“Mom made me sign a document the day after he died.”
“What document?”
“A statement saying Dad had been mentally confused for several weeks.”
My stomach dropped.
“Was he?”
“No.”
“Then why did you sign it?”
“Because she said it would help settle the estate.”
I stared at him.
“Did you read it?”
He shook his head.
I felt a sudden wave of anger.
A man who had been entrusted with millions in charitable funds had signed legal documents without reading them.
And this man was my brother.
Before I could respond, Preston reached into his jacket.
He removed a folded sheet of paper.
“Dad gave this to me about a month ago.”
“What is it?”
“I thought it was another lecture.”
He pushed it toward me.
It was a copy of a letter addressed to the foundation board.
At the bottom, Dad had written a line in red ink.
“If Richard Vale refuses to provide the original financial records, contact Margaret Ellis.”
Preston looked at me.
“Dakota, I don't think Mom knows I have this.”
Then his phone rang again.
This time, the caller was an unknown number.
Preston answered.
I watched the color drain from his face.
After several seconds, he whispered, “Who is this?”
A voice on the other end said something I couldn't hear.
Preston slowly lowered the phone.
“What happened?” I asked.
May you like
He stared at me in horror.
“They said if I keep talking to you, I'll end up buried beside Dad.”
