Chapter 11 - The Final Envelope
We spent the afternoon eating mint chocolate chip ice cream at a diner two towns over, completely disconnected from the drama unfolding back at the vineyard.
By 6:00 PM, we were back home. Caleb was happily assembling a brand-new motorized robot I had ordered for him online that morning, humming to himself on the living room rug. The house was quiet, peaceful, and entirely ours.
Then, the doorbell rang.
I didn't expect anyone. I walked to the door, assuming it might be a delivery package, but when I pulled it open, Brandon Cole was standing on my porch.
He was no longer wearing his tuxedo jacket. His tie was undone, draped loosely around his neck, and his white shirt was rumpled. He looked ten years older than he had that morning, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion and an unsettling, hollow intensity.
Behind him in my driveway sat his Mercedes, engine off, headlights dark.
"Brandon?" I asked, keeping my hand on the edge of the door. "What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be at your reception?"
Brandon let out a short, dry, humorless laugh. He reached into the breast pocket of his vest and pulled out a thick, legal-sized manila envelope, sealed with red tamper-evident tape.
"There is no reception, Jake," Brandon said quietly.
I stared at him. "What happened?"
"About forty minutes after you left, my father’s private attorney arrived at the vineyard," Brandon said, his voice dropping to a low, trembling whisper. "My father had a forensic audit conducted on my personal accounts three weeks ago because he suspected someone was forging my authorization on offshore investment withdrawals. We thought it was an employee at my firm."
He held up the envelope. His hand was shaking.
"It wasn't an employee," Brandon continued, staring directly into my eyes with an expression that sent a cold chill down my spine. "It was Lisa. And the ten thousand dollars for the venue was just the tip of the iceberg. What’s inside this envelope isn't just about my money, Jake... it involves your name, your late wife’s estate, and a bank account in Delaware that has been active since last November."
Before I could speak, my phone buzzed in my pocket with a notification. A text message from an unknown number:
May you like
*DO NOT OPEN WHAT BRANDON GIVES YOU IF YOU WANT TO PROTECT CALEB.*
I looked from the screen up to Brandon, whose eyes were fixed on the envelope in his hand.
