“They concern me.”
He held my gaze.
“Your mother struggled with paranoia in the last few years. She held onto old documents and convinced herself they meant something they didn’t.”
That was clean. Calm. Practiced.
“She found Daniel’s emails in 2008,” I said.
His expression didn’t change.
“Emails can be misunderstood.”
“She asked you about them.”
A slight pause.
“She was grieving for a long time.”
“Grief doesn’t follow a schedule.”
I studied him the way I would study a source briefing overseas. No visible anxiety. Controlled breathing. Measured responses.
“You told her Daniel was unstable,” I said.
“He was under pressure.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
He leaned back against the counter.
“You’re building a story out of incomplete information.”
I thought about the accident report, the missing autopsy, the four-day closure, the added instability note, the property transfers, the holding company.
Incomplete, maybe.
But they were starting to align.
“My mother tried to leave you,” I said.
His jaw tightened just slightly.
“She reconsidered.”
“Why?”
“Because she loved this family.”
That answer sounded rehearsed.
I watched him closely.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
He didn’t respond.
For the first time since the funeral, silence hung between us without him filling it.
I realized something in that moment.
My mother had spent years doubting quietly. Thomas had spent years managing perception.
I wasn’t doubting quietly.
And he could feel that shift.
He picked up his phone and glanced at the screen.
“You should head back to base soon,” he said. “You have responsibilities.”
So did he.
I walked past him without another word and headed toward the hallway that led to his study.
The door was closed.
Locked.
That was new.
I knocked on Carla Jennings’s front door just after noon and heard the deadbolt slide before I saw her face.
She looked older than I expected. Not fragile. Just careful. The kind of careful that comes from learning when not to speak.
“I called yesterday,” I said. “Elena Mercer.”
Her eyes shifted slightly at the last name.
“I remember,” she said. “You look like him.”
That wasn’t something people had said to me growing up.
She stepped aside and let me in.
Her house was modest. Clean. Organized. No unnecessary decoration. The blinds were half closed even though it was bright outside.
“I’m not here to cause trouble,” I said. “I just need clarity.”
She gave a short laugh.
“Clarity is usually what causes trouble.”
We sat at her kitchen table.
I placed the copy of Daniel’s email about the audit in front of her.
She didn’t hesitate.
“I typed that spreadsheet,” she said. “Those discrepancies were real.”
“Did he think it was fraud?”
“He thought someone was moving money between subcontractor accounts before draw approvals cleared.”
“That someone being…?”
She looked toward the window before answering.
