Chapter 6: The Box Beneath My Father's Desk
We left the ballroom through a private service entrance.
Marcus refused to let go of my hand.
Richard followed us with two security guards, while Simone stayed behind to preserve the recordings and prevent anyone from accessing the production equipment.
My wedding planner had spent months organizing flowers, seating charts, and music.
She never expected to spend my wedding night coordinating security.
Yet she did it without hesitation.
Before we reached the car, Marcus stopped.
"Nia, look at me.""
I turned.
His face was tense.
"We don't have to do this tonight.""
I looked down at my ruined overskirt.
My wedding had already become something I never imagined.
But I knew one thing.
If we went home without finding those records, someone else might get there first.
"My mother left that message for a reason," I said.
"I need to know what she was protecting.""
Marcus nodded.
"Then we're going together.""
Richard approached.
"I've arranged for additional security at your apartment.""
I looked at him.
"How did you know where I live?""
He gave a sad smile.
"Your father once sent me a photograph of your first apartment. He was very proud of you.""
My eyes burned.
I wished my father were alive.
I wished my mother were alive.
I wished I could ask them why they had hidden so much from me.
But all I had was a letter and an old wooden abacus.
And somewhere beneath it were the answers.
The drive took thirty-five minutes.
Marcus sat beside me in the back of the car.
Richard rode in front.
Nobody spoke much.
When we finally reached my apartment building, two security officers were already waiting outside.
One approached the car.
"Mr. Hale, the entrance is secure.""
Marcus stepped out.
"Any sign of forced entry?""
"No, sir.""
I hurried toward the elevator.
My apartment was on the seventh floor.
I unlocked the door with shaking hands.
Everything looked normal.
The cream-colored sofa.
The framed photographs.
The books stacked beside the window.
The small dining table where Marcus and I had eaten takeaway pizza on our first date night after moving in together.
Then I saw it.
The drawer beside the television was open.
I stopped.
"Marcus.""
He moved beside me.
"What?""
"That drawer was closed.""
Richard entered behind us.
One of the guards immediately checked the bedrooms.
Marcus looked around.
"Did you leave anything valuable here?""
I shook my head.
"Not really.""
But my eyes had already found the old wooden desk.
My father's desk.
It stood in the corner of the spare bedroom.
The same desk he had used for years when he worked late into the night.
The chair was slightly pulled away.
I knew I had pushed it in before leaving that morning.
Someone had been inside.
Marcus approached the desk.
"Don't touch anything yet.""
I nodded.
He called one of the security officers.
The man photographed the room before checking the drawers.
Nothing appeared missing.
Except the abacus.
I looked at the empty space on the desk.
My stomach dropped.
"No.""
Marcus turned.
"What?""
"The abacus.""
I opened the bottom drawer.
It was empty.
I pulled out the papers, the old photographs, and the envelopes.
Nothing.
My father's abacus was gone.
I felt my knees weaken.
"They took it.""
Marcus caught my arm.
"Whoever came here was looking for the records.""
Richard looked toward the window.
"Then they may have taken what they needed.""
I shook my head.
"No.""
I walked toward the desk.
"That's impossible.""
Marcus followed.
"Nia?""
I knelt and ran my hand beneath the desk.
My father had built the desk himself.
I remembered how he used to complain about the loose wooden panel underneath.
He had always said he would fix it.
He never did.
I pressed against the panel.
It moved.
A small section of wood clicked inward.
Then a narrow compartment opened.
Inside was a folded piece of cloth.
I pulled it out.
The abacus was wrapped inside.
I almost cried with relief.
But there was something else.
A tiny brass key.
And a photograph.
The photograph showed my parents standing beside Richard Hale Senior.
All three were younger.
Behind them stood the original Hale company headquarters.
On the back, my father had written:
*Three people knew the truth. Two are gone. One remains.*
I looked at Richard.
"Who was the third person?""
His expression changed.
He took the photograph from my hand.
For several seconds, he stared at it.
Then he whispered a name.
"Margaret.""
I frowned.
"Who is Margaret?""
"Your father's younger sister.""
I blinked.
"My aunt?""
Richard nodded.
I had met Aunt Margaret only a handful of times as a child.
She lived in another state and rarely attended family gatherings.
After my parents died, she had stopped visiting altogether.
I hadn't spoken to her in almost ten years.
"What does she have to do with this?""
Richard placed the photograph on the desk.
"She was the person who helped your mother preserve the original records.""
Marcus looked surprised.
"Then why haven't we heard from her?""
Richard hesitated.
"Because Margaret disappeared shortly after your father's death.""
I stared at him.
"Disappeared?""
"She left her house, sold her belongings, and stopped communicating with everyone.""
"Why?""
Richard looked at the brass key.
"Your father believed she was being threatened.""
I felt cold.
My aunt had vanished because of the same people who were now trying to get into my apartment.
Marcus picked up the key.
"What's this for?""
I examined it.
There was a tiny number stamped into the metal.
317.
Richard immediately recognized it.
"That's a deposit box key.""
"Where?""
"At the old Hale Bank branch.""
Marcus frowned.
"That branch closed fifteen years ago.""
Richard shook his head.
"The building closed. The private archive beneath it didn't.""
I stared at him.
"An archive?""
Richard nodded.
"Your grandfather created a secure document storage facility beneath the original bank. Only three people were authorized to access it.""
He looked at the photograph.
"Your mother. Your father. And Margaret.""
I felt a strange pressure in my chest.
If the records were still there, we might finally know what had happened to the eleven million dollars.
We might also understand why my mother had kept everything secret.
Marcus reached for his phone.
"I'll call the bank's legal department.""
Richard stopped him.
"No.""
Marcus looked irritated.
"Why not?""
"Because Daniel used to oversee the archive's legal records. If he knows we're looking for the documents, he'll get there first.""
"Then what do you suggest?""
Richard looked at me.
"Call Margaret.""
I stared at him.
"I don't have her current number.""
Richard nodded slowly.
"Your mother left one more thing with me.""
He reached inside his jacket and removed a small folded card.
There was a phone number written on it.
And underneath it, in my mother's handwriting, were the words:
*If Nia ever comes looking, tell her to ask Margaret what happened on October 14.*
I looked at the date.
October 14.
The day my father died.
My fingers went numb.
Marcus stepped closer.
"What happened that day?""
Richard didn't answer.
Instead, he looked toward the window.
A black SUV had pulled up outside the building.
Its headlights illuminated the lobby.
One of the security guards approached the bedroom door.
"Mr. Hale.""
Marcus turned.
"What?""
The guard's voice was tense.
"There's someone downstairs asking for Mrs. Hale.""
I frowned.
"Who?""
The guard hesitated.
"She says she's your aunt.""
I rushed toward the door.
"Margaret?""
The guard nodded.
But before I could reach the elevator, my phone began ringing.
An unknown number.
I answered.
"Hello?""
A woman's voice came through.
Older.
Shaking.
But unmistakably familiar.
"Nia?""
My throat tightened.
"Aunt Margaret?""
She began crying.
"Oh, sweetheart. I'm so sorry.""
I closed my eyes.
"Where are you?""
There was a long silence.
Then she whispered:
"Don't let Richard open that archive.""
I looked toward him.
He had gone completely still.
"Why?""
My aunt's voice dropped.
"Because the records don't prove Bianca stole the money.""
I gripped the phone.
"What do they prove?""
Her answer shattered everything I thought I knew.
May you like
"Your father was the one who moved the eleven million dollars.""
And before I could ask another question, the line went dead.
