Brake response delayed again. Must investigate.
I stared at it.
My hands went cold.
“Where did you find this?”
“Inside an old service archive.”
“When?”
“Three days before his death.”
I looked up.
“Daniel.”
“Yes?”
“If the brakes were failing...”
“We don't know whether they failed that night.”
“But someone knew there was a problem.”
“Yes.”
“Who serviced the car?”
Daniel turned another page.
“Bennett Hospitality's company garage.”
I stopped breathing.
“Who was the mechanic?”
He gave me the name.
I recognized it.
Martin Cross's brother.
I stared at the page.
“No.”
Daniel didn't speak.
“That's impossible.”
“Maybe.”
I closed my eyes.
My father's note.
The missing inspection report.
The threat.
Martin's account altering guest complaints.
The same company.
The same people.
A fifteen-year-old secret was beginning to emerge from the walls.
And suddenly the Beaumont Crown didn't feel like the beginning of the story anymore.
It felt like the end of a thread.
I only had to pull.
My Father's Last Meeting
The next morning, I went to the Bennett family house.
I had not been there in years.
My father had bought it when I was ten.
It stood on a quiet street outside Manchester, surrounded by old trees and stone walls.
After his death, I had inherited it.
But I had never truly lived there.
It was too full of memories.
Too full of him.
The caretaker let me inside.
Dust covered the furniture.
Nothing had changed.
My father's books still lined the shelves.
His old leather chair remained beside the fireplace.
His glasses sat on the desk.
For fifteen years, I had avoided looking too closely at the details.
That day, I looked at everything.
I opened drawers.
I searched cabinets.
I examined old files.
At the bottom of a desk drawer, I found a locked box.
I remembered it.
My father had always kept important documents there.
I had never known the combination.
Daniel stood beside me.
“Try his birthday.”
I did.
The lock clicked.
Inside were six envelopes.
Five were addressed to lawyers.
One had my name.
My hands began to shake.
I opened it.
Inside was a letter.
Maya,
If you're reading this, something has happened to me.
I stopped.
Daniel stepped closer.
I continued.
I hope I'm wrong.
For the last year, I have been investigating financial irregularities inside the company.
I looked at Daniel.
He said nothing.
I read on.
Certain properties are losing money despite strong occupancy. Money is leaving through contractors, consulting firms, and management agreements.
I initially believed it was incompetence.
It isn't.
My heart began beating faster.
Someone has built a private network inside Bennett Hospitality Group.
They have people in finance, operations, procurement, and guest relations.
I looked up.
“Guest relations.”
Daniel nodded slowly.
I continued.
Their purpose is not simply theft.
The next sentence made me stop.
They are trying to control the company from within.
I read the paragraph twice.
My father had written names.
Three of them.
Martin Cross.
Graham Ellis.
And Richard Hale.
I stared at the page.
Richard.
The general manager of Beaumont Crown.
The man who had apologized to me.
The man who had seemed frightened.
Was he afraid because he was guilty?
Or because he knew who was?
I read the final lines.
Maya, trust no one who tells you that everything is under control.
Especially if they have been saying it for years.
The company is worth more than money.
It is the thing I built so you could have a future.
If you must fight, fight for the people inside it.
Don't let them turn it into what they want.
Dad
I lowered the letter.
For several minutes, neither of us spoke.
Then Daniel said quietly,
“Why didn't you ever see this?”
“Because I didn't know it existed.”
“No. I mean why didn't he tell you?”
I looked at the letter.
“Because he wanted to protect me.”
Daniel sighed.
“From what?”
I looked at the names.
“From the truth.”
We spent the next three hours searching the house.
We found old invoices.
Contractor agreements.
Property reports.
Bank statements.
Nothing conclusive.
Then Daniel found a photograph.
It showed my father standing beside four men.
Martin.
Graham.
Richard.
And another man.
I stared at the fourth face.
“Who is that?”
Daniel didn't know.
We searched the back of the photograph.
There was a date.
Six months before my father's death.
And one word:
BEAUMONT
I turned the photograph over again.
“Why would my father meet them here?”
Daniel looked thoughtful.
“Maybe Beaumont was where it started.”
I shook my head.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because Beaumont was where the network was discovered.”
I looked at the photograph.
“Not where it started.”
That afternoon, I asked Daniel to identify the fourth man.
He returned two hours later.
His expression told me he had found something.
“His name is Jonathan Price.”
“Who is he?”
“Private equity consultant.”
“Was?”
“He's still alive.”
“Where?”
“New York.”
“What does he do now?”
“Investment advisory.”
I looked at Daniel.
“And fifteen years ago?”
“He was advising your father.”
“On what?”
“Expansion.”
I thought about the company's growth.
Forty-three hotels.
Twelve countries.
Billions in assets.
A company my father had built carefully.
A company that had somehow become large enough for people to hide inside.
“Find him.”
“Already did.”
“Will he speak to us?”
Daniel smiled faintly.
“I don't know.”
“Then I'll ask him.”
That evening, I called Jonathan Price.
He answered after six rings.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Price?”
“Yes?”
“This is Maya Bennett.”
Silence.
Then:
“I've been expecting your call.”
My blood went cold.
“You knew I'd call?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Because your father asked me to wait.”
I sat down.
“Wait for what?”
“For you to find the letter.”
I looked at Daniel.
He had heard everything through speakerphone.
“Mr. Price,” I said slowly, “what happened to my father?”
There was a long pause.
Then he said,
“He discovered who was stealing from the company.”
“Who?”
“Not who you think.”
“What does that mean?”
“You're looking at the wrong people.”
I frowned.
“Then tell me who I should be looking at.”
“I can't.”
“Why?”
“Because if your father was killed, then they already know you're investigating.”
My throat tightened.
“You think my father was murdered?”
“I think he was afraid.”
“That's not an answer.”
“No.”
His voice became quieter.
“But it is the truth.”
Then the line went dead.
I looked at Daniel.
“Call him back.”
We did.
No answer.
Again.
No answer.
Then a message arrived.
Don't call me again.
I stared at it.
A minute later, another message.
Look at the Beaumont guest archives. December 14, fifteen years ago.
I looked at Daniel.
“What happened December 14?”