Chapter 4 - The Man at the Funeral
The video ended before James named him.
The file was corrupted.
Adrian nearly threw the laptop through the wall.
Instead, he spent forty-eight hours having specialists recover fragments.
One frame changed everything.
A photograph appeared for less than a second.
Marcus enhanced it.
Three men stood beside a shipping terminal.
Richard Cole.
James.
And Charles Whitmore.
Adrian’s godfather.
Chairman of Whitmore Global.
And the man who had delivered James’s eulogy.
“He helped carry the coffin,” Adrian whispered.
The investigation turned dangerous immediately.
Someone followed us from New York.
Adrian's security team intercepted the vehicle outside Greenwich.
The driver escaped.
That evening, a brick came through the staff-wing window.
Attached was a message.
STOP DIGGING.
Adrian moved Nora and me into the main house.
I protested.
He ignored me.
“You can be angry while you're alive.”
“You don't get to order me around.”
“Correct. I'm ordering the security team around.”
“You're infuriating.”
“So I've been told.”
“By James?”
“Constantly.”
For one second we both smiled.
Then the smile became something quieter.
Something dangerous in a different way.
Over the next week, Adrian became part of Nora's world.
He learned that she hated crusts.
That she required exactly two bedtime stories but would negotiate for four.
That she believed broccoli was “tiny evil trees.”
He attended her preschool family breakfast because she announced that every other child had someone coming.
Adrian arrived in a three-piece suit.
Nora looked him over.
“No.”
“No?”
“You look like work.”
She forced him to remove his jacket and tie.
He obeyed.
Twenty parents stared.
I nearly laughed myself sick.
Later, Adrian asked, “Was James good with children?”
“He wanted four.”
His expression softened.
“Four?”
“He said one would get lonely.”
Adrian looked across the playground at Nora.
“He would have loved her.”
“He already did.”
That night, Adrian found another clue.
James had scheduled a meeting with Whitmore two hours before his crash.
Whitmore denied seeing him.
But security footage from an old toll plaza showed James's car.
Another vehicle followed three minutes behind.
Registered to Whitmore Global.
We took the evidence to federal investigators.
They reopened questions surrounding James's death but warned us evidence remained circumstantial.
Whitmore responded publicly.
He accused Adrian of weaponizing grief to damage a competitor.
Cole Meridian's stock fell eleven percent.
Board members panicked.
Adrian didn't care.
Then Whitmore came to the estate.
Uninvited.
I found him in the library.
Silver-haired.
Elegant.
Calm.
“You must be Emily.”
My skin crawled.
“How do you know me?”
“I knew James.”
“You knew about me?”
“Eventually.”
He smiled.
“Richard was terribly concerned about you.”
I stepped backward.
“Leave.”
“You misunderstand.”
“No. I don't think I do.”
His gaze shifted toward the doorway.
Nora stood there holding her stuffed rabbit.
Whitmore stared at her.
And his face changed.
Recognition.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
He already knew.
Adrian appeared behind Nora.
“Get away from them.”
Whitmore smiled.
“Adrian.”
“Now.”
Whitmore left.
But before entering his car, he turned to me.
“James made many mistakes.”
Adrian stepped between us.
Whitmore continued.
“His greatest was believing blood makes people loyal.”
That night, Adrian doubled security.
At 2:13 a.m., an alarm sounded.
Someone had entered the estate through an old service tunnel.
I ran to Nora's room.
Empty.
Her bed was empty.
I screamed.
Adrian arrived seconds later.
We searched the hallway.
Then we heard Nora giggling.
From James’s old bedroom.
We found her sitting inside the closet.
A hidden panel stood open behind her.
“I found Daddy's room.”
Adrian stared.
The secret compartment contained another box.
Inside were documents James had hidden before his death.
Shipping manifests.
Payments.
Photographs.
And one insurance policy.
The beneficiary wasn't Adrian.
It wasn't Richard.
It was me.
Five million dollars.
But beneath it was something even stranger.
A handwritten legal document.
James had established a trust.
For his future child.
Signed three days before he died.
Adrian looked at me.
“He knew.”
“Yes.”
Then we heard footsteps downstairs.
Security shouted.
A gunshot cracked through the estate.
Adrian pushed me behind him.
Marcus appeared moments later.
His face was grim.
“We caught someone.”
“Who?”
Marcus hesitated.
“One of our own guards.”
Adrian's expression hardened.
“Who hired him?”
Marcus looked toward Nora.
Then back at us.
“He says Charles Whitmore ordered him to retrieve the documents.”
I thought that was the worst news.
It wasn't.
Marcus continued.
“He also says Whitmore didn't kill James.”
Adrian stared.
“Then who did?”
The guard had given them a name.
May you like
A name Adrian recognized immediately.
His own mother.
