C11 A Letter for Amara
Amara knew something was wrong the moment Damian asked her to come to his office.
He was standing beside the window, holding a single sheet of paper.
“Before you read this,” he said, “I need you to know I didn’t keep it from you.”
She took the letter.
Samuel Vale’s words made her stomach tighten.
Your father entrusted me with information that could expose the people responsible. I was instructed to contact you when you reached twenty-four years of age.
She read the sentence twice.
“My birthday was three months ago.”
“I know.”
“Then where is he?”
“Adrian is trying to locate him.”
Amara looked at the final line.
The person you have been searching for is not the person you should fear.
“That sounds like a warning.”
“It may be.”
“Or another attempt to confuse me.”
Damian didn’t disagree.
She placed the letter on his desk.
“Why would my father ask a stranger to contact me when I turned twenty-four?”
“Perhaps he believed you’d be old enough to decide what to do with the truth.”
Amara shook her head.
“He didn’t get to make that decision for me.”
“No,” Damian said quietly. “He didn’t.”
That answer surprised her.
For once, he wasn’t trying to explain her father’s choices or persuade her to be patient.
He was simply listening.
Her phone rang.
Naomi.
Amara answered.
“We found Samuel Vale,” Naomi said.
“Where?”
“Brooklyn. He runs a small accounting practice under a different company name.”
“Can we meet him?”
“He’s agreed to speak to us this afternoon.”
Amara grabbed her bag.
Damian picked up his keys.
She stopped.
“I can go alone.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you coming?”
He met her eyes.
“Because someone followed your mother’s visitor out of her building, and I’d rather you didn’t meet another stranger without support.”
Amara studied him.
“You’re learning to ask instead of decide.”
“Painfully slowly.”
She almost smiled.
“Fine. You can come.”
⸻
Samuel Vale’s office occupied the second floor of an aging brick building.
He was older than Amara expected, with silver hair and a careful way of speaking.
The square black-stone ring was on his left hand.
“You look like Daniel,” he told her.
“I’m beginning to hate hearing that.”
Samuel nodded.
“Fair enough.”
He invited them to sit.
Amara didn’t waste time.
“Why did you write me a letter after my father died?”
“Because I made him a promise.”
“What promise?”
Samuel opened a drawer and removed a photograph.
Daniel Bennett stood beside Richard Cross outside a modest building.
Between them was a woman Amara recognized immediately.
Her mother.
“Your father and Richard established a private investment arrangement years before Bennett Developments collapsed,” Samuel said.
Damian frowned.
“What arrangement?”
“One intended to fund housing projects and scholarships. Daniel supplied development expertise. Richard supplied capital.”
“Through the foundation?”
“Initially. Later, the funds were transferred into a separate trust.”
Amara leaned forward.
“What happened to it?”
Samuel looked uncomfortable.
“Someone redirected the money.”
“Victor?”
“Victor signed several transfers. But the instructions came from elsewhere.”
“Who?”
Samuel shook his head.
“I don’t know. The orders were delivered through intermediaries.”
Amara stood.
“Then why bring us here?”
Samuel looked directly at her.
“Because your father discovered the missing money before anyone else. And because he left something for you.”
He placed a brass key on the desk.
A faded blue tag hung from it.
B-17.
Amara’s breath caught.
“The suitcase.”
Samuel nodded.
“Your father rented a storage unit in your name. He asked me to hold the key until you were twenty-four.”
“Why didn’t you contact me?”
“I tried. Twice. Both letters were returned.”
Damian’s expression hardened.
“Who handled the correspondence?”
Samuel hesitated.
“Martin Hale offered to deliver it.”
Amara closed her eyes.
Of course he had.
Samuel slid the key toward her.
“I don’t know what’s inside the unit. Daniel never told me.”
Amara picked it up.
It was cold against her palm.
“Then I suppose we’re going to find out.”
