The pieces began falling into place with terrifying speed.
“She wasn't just abusing Amy to be cruel,” I said, my voice shaking with rage as I held up the trust documents. “She was trying to drive Amy into a mental breakdown or force her to run away. Then she would use that to claim I was an unfit father and an unstable individual. If she broke my family, she could trigger the clause and claim the four million dollars.”
David took one of the cassette tapes and slipped it into a portable recorder he carried in his pocket. He hit play.
Static filled the room for a moment, followed by the muffled sound of my father’s voice, recorded nearly a decade ago.
“Teresa, I know what you and Richard have been doing with the equipment accounts. I’ve documented every dollar you siphoned off. If you don't return the money to the company account by Monday, I’m going to the district attorney. I don't care if you're my wife—I won't let you destroy what I built for Connor.”
Then came my mother’s cold, unyielding response on the recording:
“You think anyone will believe you, Edward? You’re the one who signed those safety inspection reports for the new crane rig. If anything happens on that site, it falls on you. You better think carefully before you try to ruin me.”
The tape ended abruptly with a sharp click.
I stood frozen in the dim light of the bedroom, holding the cassette player as the awful truth washed over me. My father’s death ten years ago hadn't been an tragic accident. It had been a murder. And the woman who had hugged me at his funeral, the woman I had been sending three thousand dollars a month to, was the person responsible.