The diner was quiet. The lunch rush had ended, and the only other customers were an old man reading a newspaper and a teenager scrolling through her phone. The jukebox played something slow and sad.
Vivian stared at the envelope in her hands.
Her father's handwriting. She hadn't seen it in five years. The last time was on the note they found in his coat pocket. The one that said I'm sorry.
For my daughter.
Her fingers trembled as she pulled out the contents.
A small notebook. Leather-bound, the cover worn smooth. Pages and pages of cramped handwriting, some of it crossed out, some of it underlined. And tucked inside the back cover, a photograph.
Her father. Younger. Standing next to a man she didn't recognize.
"Who is this?" she asked, holding up the photo.
Lucian looked at it. "Thomas Sterling. My father."
Vivian's breath caught. "They knew each other?"
"They were partners. Not in business. In… something else." He reached across the table and turned the notebook to the first page. "Read."
Entry #1 – March 12
Thomas came to me today. He looked tired. More tired than I've ever seen him. He said something is wrong inside the company. Something rotten. He said he needs someone he can trust.
I told him I'm just an accountant. I count numbers. I don't solve mysteries.
He said: "Numbers don't lie. People do."
I don't know what I've gotten myself into.
Vivian looked up. "He was scared."
"He had reason to be." Lucian's voice was quiet. "Keep reading."
Entry #7 – April 3
I found something. A transfer that doesn't make sense. Money moving from one subsidiary to another, then to a shell company in the Caymans. The paper trail is clean—too clean. Someone is hiding something.
Thomas says not to tell anyone. Not even my wife.
I'm keeping this journal because I need to remember. In case something happens to me.
Entry #12 – May 22
Derek called me into his office today. He asked about the transfer. He said Thomas had been asking questions too. He said Thomas is a good man but "not a team player."
Then he said: "Accidents happen to people who ask too many questions."
I think he was threatening me.
Vivian's hands were cold. "Derek knew?"
"Derek was the one hiding the money." Lucian's jaw was tight. "My father was trying to expose him. Your father was helping."
"Then why did my father take the blame? Why did he kill himself?"
"Read the next entry."
Entry #19 – June 15
Thomas is dead. Car accident. Black ice.
They say it was an accident. I don't believe them.
Derek came to see me yesterday. He said I have two choices. I can keep quiet and take care of my family. Or I can end up like Thomas.
He said: "Your daughter is beautiful. It would be a shame if something happened to her."
I can't let him hurt Vivian. I can't.
I've decided what I have to do.
Vivian's vision blurred. Tears dripped onto the page.
"He didn't kill himself because he was guilty," she whispered. "He killed himself to protect me."
"Yes." Lucian's voice was rough. "And Derek has been paying your mother's medical bills ever since. To buy your silence. To keep you from asking questions."
"But you're asking questions."
"I've been asking for five years." He reached across the table and took her hand again. This time, she didn't pull away. "And now you're asking too. That makes us both targets."
"Then why are we doing this?"
"Because your father deserved better. And so did mine." He held her gaze. "And because I'm tired of letting bad people win."
They sat in silence for a long moment.
The jukebox changed songs. The old man folded his newspaper and left. The teenager didn't look up from her phone.
"What do we do now?" Vivian asked.
"We find proof. Evidence that Derek was behind the embezzlement. Evidence that he threatened your father. Evidence that he killed mine." Lucian released her hand and leaned back. "And we find it before he finds out we're looking."
"How do we do that?"
"You keep going through those files. Anything that doesn't match, anything that seems off, you flag it. I'll handle the rest."
"And if Derek finds out?"
Lucian's expression didn't change. "Then we deal with it."
He drove her back to the office.
The afternoon was gray and cold, the kind of New York winter day that made you forget the sun had ever existed. Vivian clutched the journal against her chest like a lifeline.
"You should take the rest of the day off," Lucian said as they pulled into the garage.
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You just found out your father was murdered." He parked the car and turned to look at her. "Take the day. Go see your mother. Read the rest of the journal. Process."
"I don't have time to process."
"Make time." His voice was gentle. "The files will still be there tomorrow."
She wanted to argue. But she was tired. And her eyes were swollen. And she didn't want Karen to see her like this.
"Fine," she said. "One day."
"One day." He reached over and brushed a tear from her cheek. His fingers were warm. "I'll be here when you come back."
Vivian didn't know what to say to that.
So she just nodded and got out of the car.
Her mother's hospital room was on the sixth floor of St. Mary's, a Catholic hospital in Queens that smelled like antiseptic and overcooked vegetables. Clara Wei was asleep when Vivian walked in, her thin chest rising and falling under the white sheets.
Vivian pulled a chair to the bedside and sat down.
She read the rest of the journal.
Page after page of fear and desperation. Entries about Derek's threats. About the money that kept disappearing. About Thomas's investigation and the evidence he'd gathered before he died.
The last entry was dated two days before her father's death.
Entry #34 – July 10
I've hidden everything. The evidence. The journal. Everything Thomas gave me. It's in a safe place—somewhere Derek will never find.
If you're reading this, Vivian, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I wasn't strong enough to fight. I'm sorry I left you alone. But I couldn't let him hurt you.
The truth is in the files. Find it. Expose him. And don't let him win.
I love you. I've always loved you.
Dad
Vivian closed the journal and pressed it against her heart.
Her mother stirred. "Vivian?"
"I'm here, Mom."
"You're crying."
"I'm fine." She wiped her eyes. "Just tired."
Clara reached out with a weak hand and touched her daughter's face. "You work too hard."
"I know."
"You should find someone. Someone to take care of you."
Vivian thought of Lucian. Of his cold eyes and warm hands. Of the way he'd said I'll be here when you come back.
"Maybe I already have," she said softly.
Her mother didn't hear. She'd already fallen back asleep.
Vivian stayed until visiting hours ended.
Then she took the subway back to Queens. The train was crowded, but she didn't notice. She was still reading the journal, still memorizing every word.
She got off at her stop and walked home.
The street was dark. The streetlight in front of her building had been broken for weeks, and the landlord hadn't fixed it.
She was halfway to the door when she saw it.
A car. Black. Idling at the curb.
Not Lucian's Mercedes. Something else. Something ordinary. A sedan with tinted windows.
The engine cut off. The headlights went dark.
Vivian's heart pounded.
She walked faster.
Behind her, a door opened.
She didn't look back. She ran.
She made it inside and locked the door behind her. Then she pressed her back against the wood and waited.
No knock. No footsteps. Just silence.
She looked out the window.
The car was gone.
Her phone buzzed.
A text from an unknown number.
You should be more careful. Some people don't like questions.
Vivian stared at the screen.
Who is this?
No reply.
She typed again: What do you want?
The message didn't even deliver.
She set the phone down and tried to calm her breathing.
Someone knows, she thought. Someone knows I'm looking.
She looked at the journal on her kitchen table. At her father's last words.
Don't let him win.
"I won't," she whispered.
But she wasn't sure she believed it.
End of Chapter Six