Court paperwork.
A settlement.
Then Julian found an envelope addressed to Martha.
The handwriting on the letter inside belonged to someone else.
Mrs. Hale,
I am begging you to tell the truth.
Arthur knows the cooling design was mine. I showed him the prototypes because he offered to invest. Three months later, he filed the patent under his own company.
I have a daughter to support.
Your husband has destroyed my name.
You were in the room when we discussed the prototype. You know the truth.
Please.
Elena Laurent.
Julian slowly lowered the letter.
The mansion suddenly seemed enormous and strangely unfamiliar.
The house.
The paintings.
The imported marble.
The company.
The private aircraft.
The money.
Everything looked different now.
He searched farther into the suitcase.
Then he found another photograph.
Elena was holding a little girl who looked approximately four years old.
Dark hair.
Large eyes.
The writing on the reverse side read:
Elena and Bianca. Christmas 1989.
Julian closed his eyes.
“Oh, Dad.”
His phone rang.
The sound startled him.
It was his assistant.
“Mr.
Hale?”
“What?”
“I’m sorry to disturb you this late.”
“Tell me.”
“There are police officers at your front gate.”
Julian stood.
“Bianca?”
“No.”
A hesitation.
“Mr.
Vale.”
Julian frowned.
“Martin?”
“Yes.”
Martin Vale.
His father’s oldest friend.
The Hale family’s lawyer for forty-two years.
Julian’s godfather.
The man who had guided Julian through Arthur’s estate when Arthur died.
The man who had prepared Julian and Bianca’s prenuptial agreement.
“Let him inside.”
Martin entered the study about fifteen minutes later wearing a charcoal overcoat over his pajamas.
At seventy-one, he remained silver-haired and almost impossibly composed.
Then he saw the suitcase.
His expression changed.
Barely.
But Julian saw it.
“You found it.”
Julian leaned against the desk.
“You knew this existed?”
Martin took off his glasses.
“Julian—”
“You knew.”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Since 1989.”
Julian gave a hollow laugh.
“So everybody knew except me.”
“That isn’t fair.”
“Isn’t it?”
“Your mother wanted to tell you.”
“When?”
“More than once.”
“And?”
“Your father refused to allow it.”
“My father has been dead for nineteen years.”
Martin had nothing to say.
Julian lifted Elena’s letter.
“Did he steal her invention?”
Martin shut his eyes.
“Yes.”
The simple answer struck Julian harder than he had expected.
Everything he had built upon his father’s legacy suddenly shifted.
“My father committed fraud.”
“Yes.”
“He ruined Elena’s career.”
“Yes.”
“And my mother knew.”
Martin looked toward the open suitcase.
“Yes.”
Julian lowered his voice.
“What did you do?”
Martin hesitated.
That was the moment Julian first became truly suspicious.
Not because Martin suddenly appeared guilty.
Because Martin Vale almost never hesitated.
“Martin.”
“I attempted to negotiate a settlement.”
“With Elena?”
“Yes.”
“Did she agree?”
“Eventually.”
“How much?”
“One hundred thousand dollars.”
Julian stared at him.
For technology that ultimately generated billions.
“One hundred thousand?”
“It was 1989.”
“That makes it worse.”
“She was desperate.”
Julian held up the picture of Bianca as a child.
“So is this why Bianca entered my life?”
“I don’t know.”
“You wrote our prenuptial agreement.”
“Yes.”
“You investigated her history.”
“Yes.”
“And you never told me that her mother was Elena Laurent?”
Martin’s gaze shifted.
There.
Julian caught it.
A tiny mistake.
Almost invisible.
“Why?”
Martin replaced his glasses.
“I didn’t believe it was relevant.”
Julian laughed.
“The mother of the woman I was going to marry accused my father of stealing the invention that built our fortune, and you didn’t think that mattered?”
“I believed the issue had been settled.”
“Bianca nearly left my mother in a swimming pool tonight.”
Martin fell silent.
Julian stepped closer.
“She has been deliberately making my mother look mentally unstable.”
“Julian—”
“She knew exactly where this suitcase was.”
Martin’s face became pale.
“Did you tell her?”
“No.”
“Then who did?”
“I don’t know.”
Julian studied him.
He wanted to believe Martin.
This was the man who had taught Julian to fish as a child.
The man who attended every birthday after Arthur died.
The man who phoned Martha every Sunday.
The man who once told Julian, Family isn’t about blood. Family is the person who answers your phone call at three in the morning.
It was almost three now.
Martin had answered.
But Julian suddenly wondered why.
“Why did you come here?”
“The police contacted me.”
“No, they didn’t.”
Martin blinked.
Julian continued.
“They contacted the attorney listed in the family emergency records.”
“Yes.”
“That attorney is Rebecca Shaw.”
Martin said nothing.
“I changed it six months ago.”
Silence.
“So I’m asking again.
Why are you here?”
Martin slowly fastened the button on his coat.
“I think tonight has been extremely traumatic.
You should sleep before you begin accusing every person around you.”
Julian moved between Martin and the door.
“Who called you?”
Martin’s expression hardened.
