I flew home two days later.
This time, I didn’t announce my arrival.
I wanted to see the house exactly as my mother had left it.
The difference was almost surreal.
The roses were thriving.
The windows were open.
The kitchen smelled like cinnamon.
And my mother’s shoes were sitting beside the back door.
Normal shoes.
Not the cheap black slip-ons she had been forced to wear while scrubbing patios.
I walked into the living room.
Mom was sitting beside the fireplace, holding the brown envelope.
She looked older than she had three months earlier.
But somehow she also looked stronger.
“I didn’t open it.”
I sat beside her.
“Good.”
She handed it to me.
My father’s handwriting covered the front.
I recognized it instantly.
IRIS — WHEN YOU ARE READY TO KNOW THE TRUTH.
My fingers trembled.
I turned the envelope over.
The seal had never been broken.
“Do you want me to open it?”
Mom shook her head.
“I think it was meant for you.”
I carefully broke the seal.
Inside was a stack of papers.
Not one.
Dozens.
The first was a handwritten letter.
I unfolded it.
My father’s voice seemed to return from the dead.
My dearest Iris,
I stopped reading.
For the first time in years, I felt like a little girl again.
My father had always called me “his stubborn girl.”
I continued.
If you are reading this, then something has happened that I prayed would never happen.
My eyes moved faster.
I have spent years trying to protect your mother from people who believe kindness is weakness.
I looked at Mom.
She was staring at the fireplace.
“What does it say?”
I couldn’t answer.
I continued.
There is something I never told either of you.
My stomach tightened.
The house you grew up in was not the only property I owned.
I stopped.
“What?”
Mom looked at me.
“What?”
I handed her the letter.
She read the sentence.
Her face went completely white.
“Roy owned another house?”
“Apparently.”
She shook her head.
“That’s impossible.”
I looked at the documents beneath the letter.
The next page was a property record.
Then another.
Then another.
My father hadn’t owned one additional property.
He had owned three.
And all three had been sold within eighteen months before his death.
But there was something strange.
The money from those sales had never appeared in our family bank accounts.
I kept turning pages.
There were bank transfers.
Company records.
Copies of checks.
Names I didn’t recognize.
And then I saw one name that made my blood run cold.
Derek Holloway.
“Mom.”
She looked up.
“What?”
“Dad was giving Derek money.”
Her eyes widened.
“No.”
I showed her the documents.
“Look.”
There were transfers dating back nearly ten years.
Small amounts at first.
Then larger ones.
Five thousand.
Ten thousand.
Twenty-five thousand.
One transfer was for $87,000.
My mother covered her mouth.
“Why would your father give Derek that much money?”
“I don’t know.”
I turned another page.
Then I saw something worse.
The money wasn’t going directly to Derek.
It was going to a company.
Holloway Development Partners.
Derek’s failed construction company.
The same company that had declared bankruptcy fourteen months earlier.
I felt a chill crawl across my shoulders.
“Mom…”
“What?”
“Dad wasn’t just helping Derek.”
I pointed at the paperwork.
“He was financing him.”
She stared at the documents.
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“No.”
I flipped another page.
“It gets worse.”
The following morning, I called Tom Beran.
He answered on the second ring.
“Iris?”
“Tom, I need you to come to the house.”
“Is everything okay?”
“No.”
