Chapter 3 - My Mother's Blue Ledger
My father had never seen the letter.
That became obvious the moment I put it in front of him.
He sat in Roman’s conference room and read my mother’s final words with both hands pressed flat against the paper as if he were afraid it might blow away.
“Evelyn never told me.”
His voice cracked.
I wanted to stay angry.
Part of me needed to.
But grief changed his face.
For twelve years, Dad believed Mom’s death had been a random highway accident during heavy rain.
So had I.
Roman stood across the room.
Chloe sat beside me.
Nobody spoke until my father reached the sentence about Preston’s father.
Then he looked up.
“Charles Kensington?”
Roman nodded.
“What would Charles have had to do with Evelyn’s accident?”
“That’s what I intend to find out.”
I immediately said, “We.”
Roman’s gaze shifted toward me.
“What?”
“We intend to find out.”
“No.”
I laughed.
“You just brought me my dead mother’s letter telling me not to trust any man, including you, and your first decision is to tell me what I can’t do?”
Sofia hid a smile.
Roman noticed.
“Something amusing?”
“Extremely.”
He looked back at me.
“This may become dangerous.”
“My wedding already became dangerous.”
“Preston tearing a dress is not the same thing.”
“He grabbed me.”
Roman’s jaw tightened.
“I know.”
“And somebody may have killed my mother. So I’m involved whether you like it or not.”
Silence.
Finally Roman nodded.
“Fine.”
Chloe whispered, “That was easier than expected.”
Roman heard her.
“Don’t get used to it.”
The blue ledger became our first problem.
No one knew where it was.
Dad searched Mom’s old office years earlier but remembered nothing blue except tax binders.
Chloe suggested our family house.
I suggested the old DuPont warehouse.
Roman suggested we first determine what the ledger contained before announcing our search to anyone.
That was sensible.
I disliked that.
Sofia pulled historical corporate records.
Evelyn DuPont had served as chief financial officer of DuPont Atlantic before her death.
She had also supervised a private joint venture involving port-development permits, customs brokerage, and Northstar Terminal.
One name kept appearing beside hers.
Charles Kensington.
Preston’s father.
“They were partners?” I asked.
“Temporarily,” Sofia said.
Dad shook his head.
“Evelyn hated Charles.”
“Why?”
“Because she thought he was dishonest.”
Roman leaned against the table.
“She was right.”
He slid a photograph toward us.
Charles Kensington leaving a federal courthouse in 2008.
Beside him was a younger Roman’s father.
My stomach tightened.
“Our families were connected?”
Roman’s expression hardened.
“My father did business with many men I wouldn’t.”
“Meaning illegal business?”
“Yes.”
The blunt answer surprised me.
“You’re not going to pretend?”
“No.”
“Are you a criminal?”
Chloe nearly choked.
Dad said, “Eleanor.”
Roman simply looked at me.
“My organization has done things I’m not proud of.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It’s the one I’m giving you today.”
I stood.
“Then don’t ask me to trust you.”
“I didn’t.”
He nodded toward the letter.
“Your mother specifically warned you not to.”
I hated how effectively he used her words.
That afternoon, Dad remembered something.
The summer before Mom died, she renovated our old summer house in Gloucester.
One room had remained locked afterward.
Dad had never opened it.
“Why?”
“It was hers.”
“That is an absurd reason.”
“I couldn’t.”
That answer silenced me.
We drove to Gloucester the next morning.
Roman insisted on security.
I insisted he keep them outside.
The summer house stood above the Atlantic, weathered gray shingles facing a violent blue sea.
I had not visited in years.
Memories lived everywhere.
Mom making pancakes.
Mom reading on the porch.
Mom yelling because Chloe and I brought wet towels onto antique furniture.
The locked room was upstairs.
Dad still had the key.
He handed it to me.
“You should open it.”
The room smelled like dust and salt.
My mother’s desk remained beside the window.
Her old wool coat hung behind the door.
Chloe immediately started crying.
I didn’t.
Not yet.
We searched for two hours.
Nothing.
No blue ledger.
Roman rarely touched anything.
He watched.
That annoyed me.
“Planning to help?”
“I am.”
“By standing?”
“By looking.”
“For what?”
“Something everyone else misses.”
I rolled my eyes.
Five minutes later, he found it.
Not the ledger.
A mark beneath the desk.
One floorboard had scratches around its edge.
Roman knelt and lifted it.
Underneath was a small steel box.
Chloe whispered, “Okay, that was annoyingly impressive.”
Inside were photographs.
Bank statements.
Copies of customs manifests.
And a key.
No ledger.
One photograph showed my mother standing beside Roman’s father and Charles Kensington outside Northstar Terminal.
Written across the back:
THE THREE OF THEM KNOW.
Another photograph showed Charles handing an envelope to a port inspector.
Sofia examined the bank records.
“These are offshore transfers.”
“Bribes?” I asked.
“Possibly.”
Roman found a small cassette recorder.
Dad stared.
“Evelyn used that for meetings.”
There was one tape inside.
We found batteries.
Mom’s voice filled the room.
My chest stopped breathing.
“October fourth.”
She sounded calm.
“If anyone is hearing this, I wasn’t paranoid enough.”
Chloe covered her mouth.
Mom continued.
“Charles is moving undeclared cargo through Northstar. Vincent Moretti knows some of it. I don’t believe Roman does.”
Roman went very still.
“The shipments are being hidden inside DuPont manifests. If authorities discover them, Robert will lose everything.”
Dad whispered, “Jesus.”
“I confronted Charles tonight. He told me to think about my daughters before I made accusations I couldn’t survive.”
My hands turned cold.
The recording crackled.
“I have documented every payment in the blue ledger. I moved it somewhere neither Charles nor Vincent can reach without Eleanor.”
I frowned.
Without me?
Mom continued.
“If something happens to me, the key is with the proof.”
I looked at the key.
Roman did too.
Then Mom said:
“And if Roman is listening… be better than your father.”
The tape stopped.
Silence swallowed the room.
Roman stared at the recorder.
His expression gave nothing away.
I asked softly, “Did your father know she suspected him?”
“Yes.”
“You knew that?”
“No.”
“Do you believe him?”
Roman looked toward the ocean.
“I believe my father was capable of many things.”
That night, we identified the key.
A safety-deposit key.
Stamped with the number 417.
The bank no longer existed.
It had merged twice.
Sofia traced the records.
Box 417 had been transferred to First Commonwealth Bank.
Still active.
Registered under a trust.
Beneficiary:
Eleanor Evelyn DuPont.
We arranged access the following morning.
But we never reached the bank.
At 8:17 a.m., my phone rang.
Chloe answered because I was driving.
Her face changed.
“What?”
She put the call on speaker.
Our warehouse manager was screaming.
Smoke alarms.
Fire crews.
Explosion in the records section.
Roman’s voice became instantly sharp.
“Turn around.”
I gripped the wheel.
“What happened?”
The manager shouted through the phone.
“Someone broke in last night.”
My stomach dropped.
Roman looked at me.
“They know we’re looking.”
Then the manager said something worse.
“There was a message painted inside the loading bay.”
“What message?”
A pause.
May you like
Then:
THE BRIDE SHOULD HAVE SAID YES.
