Chapter 6 - THE GHOSTS OF THE PAST
-6-
The encrypted folder on the terminal screen contained only three files: a digital PDF titled The_Original_Partnership_1985.pdf, a high-resolution video file dated November 14, 1992, and a scanned transcript of a closed-door deposition from the Florida State Supreme Court.
I clicked on the PDF first.
As the document loaded, rows of legal text and corporate signatures scrolled down the monitor. My eyes scanned the headings, reading the fine print that detailed the foundational partnership between Brooks Global and a small, failing real estate firm formerly known as Vance & Associates.
"Good God," Marcus whispered, leaning over my shoulder as he read the financial disclosures. "Arthur didn't just partner with your father twenty years ago... your father bought out Arthur's entire family debt after Arthur's father embezzled municipal funds and skipped the country."
"That's not all," my father said, his voice strained and heavy as he gripped the edge of the mahogany desk. He was staring at the screen as if looking at a ghost. "Arthur wasn't a self-made entrepreneur, Clara. When he married into high society, he was a broke clerk working in our municipal zoning department. I gave him a job. I gave him a stake in Brooks Global’s regional subsidiary so he could support his young family after his wife passed away."
I clicked on the second file—the video dated November 14, 1992.
The screen flickered, displaying grainy, color-shifted footage recorded from what appeared to be a hidden security camera mounted in the corner of my father's old downtown office.
The video had no sound, but the visual narrative was unmistakable.
A much younger Arthur Vance—slick-haired, sharp-eyed, and wearing an ill-fitting suit—stood by my father's private desk. My father was out of the room. Arthur quickly unlocked my father's desk drawer using a stolen key, pulled out a stack of original share certificates, and stuffed them into his briefcase. Just as he turned to leave, the office door opened, and a young woman—my mother, Elizabeth—walked in holding a folder of architectural plans.
She caught Arthur red-handed.
In the grainy video, my mother’s face registered immediate shock and betrayal. She stepped forward, pointing at the briefcase, demanding that Arthur put the documents back. Arthur didn't argue. He didn't plead. Instead, he lunged forward, shoving my mother backward with violent force.
My mother stumbled, her head striking the sharp corner of the heavy oak filing cabinet before she collapsed silently to the floor.
I let out a sharp, horrified gasp, my hands flying to my mouth. Tears welled instantly in my eyes, blurring the screen.
"No..." I choked out, looking back at my father. "Dad... what is this? Is this... did Arthur...?"
My father wasn't crying. His face had gone completely, terrifyingly white. His eyes were fixed on the screen with a look of pure, unadulterated murder—the kind of rage that only a grieving husband who had spent thirty years believing an accidental lie could harbor.
"The police... the police ruled it an accidental fall," my father whispered, his voice trembling violently. "They said she slipped on a polished floor in the hallway while carrying blueprints. Arthur... Arthur was the one who called 911. He was the first one to comfort me at the hospital."
Marcus Vance stared at the screen, his face equally grim. "He staged the crime scene. He moved her body back to the hallway corridor and hid the share certificates in his offshore accounts before the detectives arrived."
I looked back at the screen as the video continued to play.
After shoving my mother to the floor, Arthur didn't check her pulse. He calmly picked up his briefcase, stepped over her unconscious body, grabbed the stolen share certificates, and walked out of the office as if nothing had happened—leaving my mother to bleed out on the floor while my father was miles away at a municipal zoning meeting.
"He murdered her," I whispered, the words tasting like ash and iron in my mouth. "He killed my mother, and then he spent thirty years acting like our family's loyal friend and benefactor."
"And then," my father said slowly, his voice dropping into a terrifying, icy whisper, "he let his son marry you. He let Julian treat you like garbage. He thought he had kept our family under his thumb forever."
My father stood up straight. The exhaustion of the past week was completely gone, replaced by the lethal focus of the man who had built an industrial empire from the ground up.
"Marcus," my father said, not taking his eyes off the screen.
"Yes, Charles?" our legal counsel answered immediately.
"Tear up the civil settlement agreements," my father commanded, his voice ringing with absolute, terrifying authority. "Revoke the whistleblower protection deals. File emergency motions in federal court to upgrade Arthur Vance's charges from white-collar fraud to capital felony murder and intentional manslaughter."
"Consider it done," Marcus said, turning sharply toward the door.
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I wiped the tears from my cheeks, resting my hand over my unborn baby's kick. The game had changed. This wasn't about revenge for a ruined baby shower anymore.
This was about blood.
