Chapter 6: My Sister's Midnight Secret
I read the message until the words seemed to burn into the screen.
Ask Emma what she was doing in your father's office at 2:13 a.m. the night Daniel died.
Bridget stood beside the kitchen counter, holding a folder of documents we'd collected that afternoon.
"Don't answer it," she said.
"I wasn't going to.""
"Tessa, I need you to think carefully. This person has given us information that may be useful, but they could also be trying to manipulate you into confronting your sister.""
"Emma knows something.""
"Possibly. But we don't know what.""
I paced to the living room window, then stopped when the movement pulled at my injured ribs.
Three years earlier, Emma had called me at midnight from a college party, crying because she'd lost her wallet. I'd driven across town to collect her.
She'd sat in my passenger seat, wrapped in my spare coat, and told me I was the only person in the family who really cared about her.
I'd believed her.
Now I wondered whether she'd been laughing at me even then.
"Could the message be from Martin Hale?"" I asked.
"It could be from anyone who knows about the investigation.""
"Could it be from Emma herself?""
Bridget considered that.
"Yes. But we won't assume it.""
I sat on the sofa.
"What if she was involved in Daniel's death?""
"Then the investigators need to establish what happened. We don't accuse her based on an anonymous message.""
I knew Bridget was right.
Still, the thought wouldn't leave me alone.
Emma had been in our father's office at two in the morning on the night Daniel Price died.
If that was true, her claim that she barely knew him was another lie.
The following morning, Detective Voss asked us to come to the station.
He had received the documents from Laura Price and was arranging for them to be examined.
He also had a new development concerning my sister.
"We located an old access log from Morgan Development's office building," he explained.
"The security company retained part of its historical data during a system migration.""
He turned a printed page toward me.
It contained a list of entry times and employee identification numbers.
One line had been highlighted.
*02:13 a.m. — E. Morgan — Executive Floor.*
I felt the blood drain from my face.
"That's Emma.""
"Your sister's name is associated with that access credential," Voss said.
"We still need to verify whether she personally used it, but the record is consistent with the information in the message you received.""
"Why was she there?""
"We don't know yet.""
"Have you asked her?""
"We contacted her attorney. She has agreed to an interview, but the date has not been finalized.""
I stared at the line.
"She told the police she was at a friend's apartment.""
"That's what she reported during her initial statement.""
"Then she lied.""
"Her statement may be inaccurate, but we need to give her an opportunity to explain the discrepancy.""
I pressed my fingertips against the paper.
"Why are you being so careful with her?""
Voss didn't look offended.
"Because careful work is what keeps a case from falling apart. If we rush to a conclusion, your family can challenge the evidence rather than answer for their actions.""
I hated that he was right.
Bridget placed the anonymous messages and the photograph from the office on the table.
"Could the access log be compared with the building's other security records?""
"We're working on that. The original video system was replaced, and some footage is no longer available. But the company has preserved archived access data.""
"Could the records show who else entered the executive floor that night?""
"Potentially.""
Voss turned back to me.
"There's one other matter. Your sister has provided a new statement through her attorney. She now says she briefly visited your father's office that night but left before Daniel arrived.""
I stared at him.
"Daniel died that night.""
"According to the official record, yes.""
"And she says she never saw him?""
"That's her current account.""
I leaned back in the chair.
Emma was changing her story before anyone had shown her the access log.
That meant she knew the original version could no longer protect her.
Or someone had warned her.
"Can I ask her why?"" I said.
Voss shook his head.
"Not directly. We don't want you to contact her while the investigation is active. If she reaches out to you, preserve the communication and let us know.""
I nodded, though every part of me wanted to call her.
I wanted to hear her voice.
I wanted to ask whether she had really stood beside my father's safe while a dead man's signature was being forged.
I wanted to ask whether she had laughed that night because she hated me or because she knew I was getting close to something that could destroy all of them.
Instead, I followed Bridget out of the station.
In the car, I stared at the road.
"What if Emma was the person who sent the messages?""
"Then she may be trying to protect herself, expose someone else, or create confusion. We don't know yet.""
"What if she wants to make a deal?""
"She can speak through her attorney and the investigators.""
I turned toward Bridget.
"Would you trust her?""
"No.""
The answer came so quickly that I looked at her.
Bridget kept her eyes on the road.
"Trust is not a requirement for investigating a lead. We can examine what she says without trusting her motives.""
That afternoon, we reviewed the original archive again.
The photograph from the Christmas party showed Emma beside the safe, but there were other images from the same event. I examined each one carefully.
In one, my father was speaking to Martin Hale near the fireplace.
In another, my mother was carrying a folder into the study.
In a third, Daniel Price stood beside the dining room window, holding a glass of water.
Then I found something I'd overlooked.
A photograph taken near midnight.
The room was nearly empty. The Christmas tree lights reflected in the windows, and most of the guests had left.
Emma stood in the doorway to my father's office.
She wasn't smiling.
She was looking over her shoulder toward someone outside the frame.
In her right hand, she held a small brass key.
I enlarged the photograph.
The key had a distinctive oval head and a narrow stem.
I recognized it.
It belonged to the safe.
I looked at Bridget.
"That key was always kept in Dad's desk.""
"Could anyone else have had access to it?""
"Not usually.""
I searched the remaining photographs.
In one image, my father was standing beside the desk with the safe key attached to his belt ring.
In the next, taken less than ten minutes later, the key was gone.
Emma had it.
Bridget wrote down the file name and time stamp.
"We'll preserve the original and provide it to the investigators.""
I leaned back.
"She took the key.""
"The photograph suggests she was holding it. It doesn't establish why.""
I knew she was being careful.
But the truth was becoming harder to ignore.
Emma hadn't simply wandered into the office.
She'd had access to the safe.
She'd been there at two in the morning.
And she had lied about it.
At six that evening, Detective Voss called.
Emma's attorney had contacted the police to request a delay in the interview.
The reason given was that Emma was experiencing severe emotional distress.
I stared at Bridget while she listened.
"Did they provide a medical assessment?"" Bridget asked.
A pause.
"Understood. Please keep us informed.""
She ended the call.
"They want more time.""
"To invent another story?""
"Possibly. Or to prepare a proper response. We don't know.""
I looked toward the window.
My sister had always been good at turning herself into the most fragile person in a room.
If Mom was angry, Emma cried.
If Dad was disappointed, Emma apologized before anyone asked her to.
If I objected to being treated unfairly, Emma accused me of making her feel unsafe.
And somehow, by the end of every argument, I was the one comforting her.
I had spent years confusing her tears with innocence.
Now I wondered how much of it had been deliberate.
That night, I dreamed of the dining room.
My mother was standing beside the table.
My father held my wrists.
Emma stood behind them with her phone.
But in the dream, she wasn't laughing.
She was crying.
She kept saying the same words.
"I didn't know what was in the folder.""
I woke before dawn, my heart racing.
The house was silent.
I went downstairs and found Bridget already awake, sitting at the kitchen table with her laptop.
She looked up.
"Bad dream?""
I nodded.
"I think Emma knows more than she's admitting.""
"That seems possible.""
"What if she was there when Daniel died?""
"Then the investigators will need to establish that.""
I sat opposite her.
"I keep thinking about the night I was left in the alley. She looked at me like she had already decided what I deserved.""
Bridget closed the laptop.
"Whatever her reasons were, she chose to record you instead of helping you. Your father chose to look away. Your mother chose to hurt you. Those are actions we don't need to guess about.""
I looked down at my hands.
For years, I'd tried to understand my family by imagining what they felt.
Maybe Mom was under pressure.
Maybe Dad was afraid.
Maybe Emma was insecure.
I'd built entire explanations around their behavior because the alternative—that they knew they were hurting me and did it anyway—was too painful to accept.
Bridget reached across the table.
"You can understand someone's motives without excusing what they did.""
I nodded slowly.
Then her laptop chimed.
A new email had arrived from Detective Voss.
It contained a scanned copy of an additional access-log entry recovered from the building's security archive.
The first entry showed Emma entering the executive floor at 2:13 a.m.
The second showed her leaving at 2:41 a.m.
But a third entry had been recorded at 3:06 a.m.
*RICHARD MORGAN — EXECUTIVE FLOOR.*
My father had returned to his office less than half an hour after Emma left.
The next entry was even stranger.
At 3:22 a.m., the system recorded the use of a master access credential assigned to the building's security supervisor.
The credential had been used to open the executive records room.
Bridget enlarged the scanned page.
"Who was the security supervisor?"" I asked.
She read the name.
"Martin Hale.""
I stared at her.
"Martin was the financial controller.""
"According to the company directory, he also held temporary responsibility for building security during the renovation.""
I felt a chill move through me.
Daniel Price had died.
Emma had entered the office in the middle of the night.
My father had returned.
And Martin Hale had used a master credential to access the records room.
Someone had gone to extraordinary lengths to control what remained in that building.
But the access log didn't tell us what they'd taken.
It didn't tell us what happened to Daniel.
And it didn't explain why my sister had been willing to leave me freezing in an alley rather than risk me exposing the truth.
I looked at Bridget.
"We need to find Martin.""
She nodded.
"Voss is already looking.""
My phone vibrated on the table.
For one second, I thought it was another anonymous message.
Instead, the caller ID showed Emma's name.
Bridget raised a hand.
"Don't answer yet.""
The phone continued ringing.
Then a text appeared.
Tessa, please. I need to talk to you before Dad finds out what I have.
I stared at the message.
A second one arrived.
I know what happened to Daniel.
My mouth went dry.
Bridget photographed the screen.
"Tell Voss immediately," she said.
I nodded, barely able to breathe.
Then the phone rang again.
This time, Emma left a voicemail.
Her voice sounded nothing like the confident girl who had laughed while recording my pain.
She was crying.
"Tess, please listen to me. I didn't know Mom was going to hurt you. I swear I didn't know. But Dad found out what you were looking for, and he's going to make sure you never get the chance to tell anyone.""
A sharp breath.
Then she whispered something that made my blood run cold.
"The night Daniel died, I saw Dad come out of the records room with blood on his shirt.""
The message ended.
I sat motionless.
Bridget immediately called Detective Voss.
But before he answered, another notification appeared on my phone.
An email from Emma.
There was no subject line.
Only one attachment.
A photograph of a handwritten ledger.
At the bottom of the page were three names.
Richard Morgan.
Evelyn Morgan.
Emma Morgan.
May you like
And beside Emma's name, in my father's handwriting, were four words.
*She knows where it is.*
