Chapter 3 - THE MUSIC BOX
Maya drove.
I sat in the passenger seat staring at Ryan’s text.
DAD IS ALREADY IN THE ATTIC.
Three minutes passed before he sent another message.
HE’S LOOKING FOR SOMETHING.
Then another.
MOM IS TRYING TO STOP HIM.
I called.
Ryan rejected it.
I called again.
Rejected.
Maya glanced at me.
“Anything?”
“No.”
“Call the police.”
“And tell them what?”
“That your father, who publicly attacked you an hour ago, is tearing through an attic looking for evidence connected to a twenty-two-year-old suspicious death.”
I dialed 911.
The dispatcher told me officers would be sent to the house.
I gave them Dad’s name.
I told them there might be evidence connected to financial crimes.
I didn’t say murder.
Not yet.
The Bennett house stood in one of the older neighborhoods west of campus.
Two stories.
Red brick.
White shutters my mother repainted every three summers.
It was the only home I remembered.
When we turned onto the street, the garage door was open.
Dad’s car was crooked in the driveway.
Mom’s car was behind it.
Ryan’s Jeep sat half on the lawn.
Two police cruisers had not arrived yet.
Maya stopped at the curb.
“Wait.”
I unbuckled.
“Emily.”
“I’m not letting him destroy it.”
“You don’t even know what ‘it’ is.”
“That’s exactly why I’m going in.”
She killed the engine.
“Then I’m coming.”
We entered through the front door.
The house looked normal.
That somehow made everything worse.
Graduation photographs were still lined up on the foyer table.
A framed picture of me at age five sat beside one of Ryan at age three.
Dad held both of us in the photograph.
His smile was enormous.
I turned it facedown.
A crash came from upstairs.
Then Mom shouted.
“Thomas, stop.”
I ran.
The attic stairs pulled down from the hallway ceiling.
Ryan stood beneath them.
His graduation-day shirt was ripped at the collar.
“Emily.”
“What happened?”
“He shoved me.”
“Where’s Mom?”
“Up there.”
I climbed.
Dust filled the attic.
Cardboard boxes had been ripped open.
Old Christmas decorations covered the floor.
My childhood clothes were scattered beside broken storage bins.
Dad stood near the far wall with the wooden music box in his hands.
Mom was blocking him from the attic window.
“Give it to me.”
I didn’t shout.
I didn’t need to.
Dad turned.
The box was cedar, faded and scratched.
A tiny painted ballerina had once decorated the lid.
I had peeled her face off when I was seven.
Dad’s eyes moved from me to Maya.
“You brought her here?”
“Yes.”
“This is family business.”
Maya folded her arms.
“You slapped her in front of five hundred people.”
She looked around.
“I think you forfeited private-family-business privileges.”
“Get out of my house.”
“No.”
Dad looked at me.
“You called the police.”
“Yes.”
“You have no idea how bad you’re making this.”
“You keep saying that.”
I stepped closer.
“But every time you try to scare me, I find another reason you’re lying.”
His fingers tightened around the box.
Mom moved between us.
“Thomas, give it to her.”
He laughed.
“You don’t even know what’s inside.”
“No.”
Mom’s voice shook.
“But Natalie wanted Emily to have it.”
Something in his face twisted.
“Natalie wanted a lot of things.”
“Did you kill her?”
The question came from Ryan.
We all turned.
Dad stared at him.
Ryan stepped into the attic.
“I asked you a question.”
“I heard you.”
“Did you kill Aunt Natalie?”
Dad’s jaw worked.
“No.”
“Then why are you scared of a music box?”
Dad threw it.
I moved instinctively.
Maya grabbed my arm.
The box struck a wooden beam and shattered.
Mom screamed.
Pieces fell to the floor.
The lid split in half.
The little metal music mechanism rolled beneath a suitcase.
Dad stared at the debris.
For one second, relief crossed his face.
Then Maya said,
“Well, that was stupid.”
He looked at her.
She crouched beside the broken base.
“There’s a false bottom.”
Dad lunged.
Ryan blocked him.
They crashed into a stack of boxes.
I dropped to my knees.
Inside the base of the box was a narrow metal compartment.
I pulled out a small brass key.
And a folded strip of paper.
Dad stopped fighting.
I unfolded it.
Four numbers were written in blue ink.
Underneath them was one word.
MERCER.
Mom stared.
“Natalie’s birthday.”
July eighteenth.
Maya took the key.
“It looks like a safe-deposit key.”
Dad sat back against a box.
His expression had changed.
Not fear anymore.
Defeat.
I looked at him.
“What does it open?”
He laughed quietly.
“You think Natalie was some hero.”
“Answer me.”
“She was stealing from the trust.”
Mom slapped him.
The sound cracked through the attic.
Everyone froze.
Dad turned his face slowly back toward her.
Mom’s hand was shaking.
“You have said that lie for twenty-two years.”
Her voice was almost a whisper.
“You don’t get to say it again.”
Dad looked at her with contempt.
“You signed the papers.”
Mom went pale.
Ryan stared.
“What papers?”
No one answered.
“What papers?”
Dad smiled.
“Ask your mother who made Emily Bennett.”
The attic seemed to shrink around us.
I looked at Mom.
“What does that mean?”
She closed her eyes.
Police sirens approached outside.
Dad heard them.
His smile widened.
“Perfect.”
He stood.
“You want truth?”
He pointed at Laura.
“Start with her.”
Two officers entered the house below.
“Police.”
Mom whispered, “Thomas.”
“You want to make me the monster?”
Dad looked at me.
“Fine.”
“Tell Emily who signed Natalie Mercer’s death benefits.”
Mom looked sick.
“What death benefits?”
I asked.
Dad continued.
“Tell her who signed the guardianship papers.”
“Stop.”
“Tell her who changed her last name.”
“Thomas, stop.”
“Tell her who helped move the trust.”
Mom shouted.
“I DID IT TO KEEP HER ALIVE.”
The attic went silent.
Even Dad looked surprised.
Mom’s chest heaved.
She turned to me.
Her face crumpled.
“I’m sorry.”
I stared at her.
“What did you do?”
The police officers reached the attic opening.
One of them told everyone to remain where they were.
I barely heard him.
Mom looked at the key in my hand.
“After Natalie died, Samuel came to me.”
“You already told me.”
“He said the accident wasn’t an accident.”
Ryan sucked in a breath.
“He said Natalie had uncovered something inside the foundation.”
“Dad and Hale.”
Mom nodded.
“He wouldn’t tell me everything.”
“Why?”
“Because he didn’t trust me.”
“Smart man.”
She flinched.
“I deserved that.”
Dad laughed bitterly.
One officer told him to stop speaking.
Mom continued.
“Samuel said Natalie had arranged for you to inherit Daniel Mercer’s estate.”
I stared.
“My biological father?”
“Yes.”
“What estate?”
“Daniel’s family had money.”
“How much?”
“I don’t know exactly.”
Dad said, “She knows.”
Mom looked at him.
He smiled.
“Tell her.”
She whispered, “Several million dollars.”
Ryan said, “What?”
I felt nothing.
The number was too large to mean anything.
“Where is it?”
No one answered.
I looked at Dad.
“Where is my inheritance?”
He met my eyes.
“Gone.”
A cold wave moved through me.
“You stole it.”
“I managed it.”
“You stole it.”
“I used what was necessary to protect this family.”
“From what?”
“From people like Natalie.”
Mom shook her head.
“Liar.”
Dad looked at the officers.
“Am I under arrest?”
“Not at this time.”
“Then I’m done.”
He moved toward the attic stairs.
I stepped in front of him.
“No.”
The officer put a hand between us.
“Miss.”
Dad looked at me.
“You want to know what the key opens?”
“Yes.”
“First National Bank.”
My heart jumped.
“Downtown branch.”
Dad’s eyes narrowed.
“Box 417.”
Maya looked at the paper in my hand.
Maybe not a code.
Maybe part of a box number.
Dad smiled.
“But don’t get excited.”
“Why?”
“Because I emptied it twenty years ago.”
He started down the stairs.
Mom whispered, “No, you didn’t.”
Dad stopped.
We all looked at her.
She reached into her blouse and pulled out a thin silver chain.
A tiny key hung from it.
Not brass.
Steel.
Dad’s face changed.
Mom unclipped it.
“Samuel gave Thomas a decoy.”
She looked at me.
“And Natalie gave me another key the night she died.”
I stared.
“You had it this whole time?”
Mom nodded.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I was afraid.”
“Of Dad?”
“Yes.”
“Of Hale?”
She hesitated.
That hesitation mattered.
“Of what?”
“Everyone.”
I took the second key.
The sirens outside had stopped.
Maya looked at both keys.
“Two keys.”
Mom nodded.
“Natalie said the box required both.”
Dad had reached the hallway.
He turned slowly.
For the first time since graduation, he seemed genuinely shocked.
“You kept it.”
Mom looked at him.
“Yes.”
“You told me you destroyed it.”
“I lied.”
Dad stared at her.
Then he began laughing.
It wasn’t amused laughter.
It was the sound of a man realizing the ground had shifted beneath him.
“You think opening that box will save you?”
Mom’s face tightened.
Dad looked at me.
“It won’t.”
“What’s in it?”
He shook his head.
“I don’t know.”
“Then why are you smiling?”
“Because Natalie trusted the wrong person.”
“Samuel?”
“No.”
He looked at Mom.
“Laura.”
Mom went white.
Dad continued down the stairs.
One officer followed him.
The other stayed.
Maya looked at me.
“Bank.”
I nodded.
Ryan said, “I’m coming.”
“No.”
He stared at me.
“Emily.”
“You helped him.”
His face tightened.
“I didn’t know what he was doing.”
“You stole my thesis.”
“I copied it.”
“That’s stealing.”
“I know.”
“Then start by being honest about that.”
He looked down.
“I’m sorry.”
The words sounded small.
Too small.
But they were the first real apology I could remember him giving me.
I looked at Mom.
“You’re coming too.”
She nodded.
Twenty minutes later, four of us stood inside First National Bank.
The manager listened to our story with an expression that moved from polite concern to alarm.
He checked the keys.
Then the records.
Box 417 was still active.
Registered to Natalie Mercer.
No one had accessed it since May 20, 2004.
The day after her recording.
The day before her death.
Because I was Natalie’s legal heir, the bank’s attorney agreed to open it after verifying my identity and the death certificate.
The manager led us downstairs.
Two keys entered two separate locks.
He turned one.
I turned the other.
The metal box slid forward.
My hands shook as I carried it into the private room.
Mom stood behind me.
Ryan and Maya waited outside because the bank allowed only the named heir and one witness.
I lifted the lid.
There was no cash.
No jewelry.
No stack of secret documents.
Only three things.
An old photograph.
A sealed envelope.
And a mini-DV videotape.
I picked up the photograph.
Natalie stood beside a man I recognized immediately.
President Victor Hale.
Beside them stood my father.
All three were outside Westbridge University’s finance building.
Someone had written on the back.
APRIL 2, 2004.
THE DAY THEY OFFERED ME MONEY TO STAY QUIET.
My stomach tightened.
Mom opened the envelope.
A single sheet of paper was inside.
She read the first line.
Then stopped breathing.
“What?”
She handed it to me.
The handwriting matched the note from the music box.
Emily,
If you ever open this box, I am probably gone.
Do not trust Thomas Bennett.
Do not trust Victor Hale.
And do not trust the story Laura tells you about the night I died.
I looked up.
My mother had gone completely white.
“What story?”
She backed away.
“Emily…”
I held the letter tighter.
“What happened the night Natalie died?”
Mom began to cry.
“I tried to save her.”
“That is not what the letter says.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Then tell me.”
She shook her head.
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
Her eyes moved toward the videotape.
Because she knew.
Whatever answer I wanted was probably on it.
I lifted the tape.
A label had been written across the front.
NIGHT OF MAY 20.
Mom whispered,
“Please don’t watch that.”
I stared at her.
“Why?”
Her face collapsed.
May you like
And then she said the five words that changed the investigation completely.
“Because I was in the car.”
