Matthew and I were brought into a small office.
He sat there, legs barely touching the floor, hands clenched tight. He looked like a child—but he had carried a secret heavier than most adults could survive.
“Why didn’t you tell anyone?” I asked him quietly.
His voice broke.
“He said he’d hurt you. He said if I talked… you’d disappear too.”
The room went cold.
For six years, we had lived with a killer.
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And I never saw it.
Hours later, they found it.
The wardrobe in our old house.
The one no one ever questioned.
Hidden behind a false panel was everything—documents, a photograph, and a ledger written in my father’s careful handwriting.
Proof.
My father hadn’t died by accident.
He had discovered something.
Money. Fraud. Names that didn’t belong on paper.
