Chapter 2 - The Ghost from the Past
The rest of the documents in Michael’s workbench revealed a labyrinth of deceit, protection, and unconditional love that made my chest ache. According to the investigation notes compiled by Frank—who turned out to be a retired homicide detective Michael had secretly hired back in 2004—the brake lines of my mother's sedan had been cut with surgical precision while it was parked in our own driveway.
The primary suspect had never been charged due to a corrupt local prosecutor and a missing witness statement. That suspect was none other than my biological father—the man who supposedly vanished before I was born.
For my entire life, I had been told that my biological father was a faceless ghost who abandoned us out of cowardice. But the photographs in the folder told a drastically different story. Staring back at me from a faded snapshot was a man with sharp, predatory eyes and a familiar jawline—Arthur Vance. He wasn't a random drifter. He was the son of a powerful, wealthy local real estate mogul who had threatened to ruin Carina if she exposed his illicit business dealings or tried to claim child support.
When Carina became pregnant with me, she had secretly gathered financial records proving Arthur’s corporate embezzlement. She planned to hand them over to federal authorities. On the night her car plunged down the ravine, she was carrying those documents in her briefcase.
The briefcase was never found at the crash site.
Michael had known all of this. He had met my mother just six months before she died, falling deeply in love with her gentle spirit and her fierce determination to protect her unborn child. He had married her, legally adopted me the moment we met, and stepped into a war zone disguised as a suburban family life.
When Carina was killed, Michael didn't just mourn; he went to war. He used every penny he earned as a master carpenter to hire Frank, track down evidence, and secure my safety. He moved us three times in my early childhood before settling in this house—a fortress equipped with reinforced locks and security cameras that I had always thought were just a bit of eccentric paranoia.
He hadn't been paranoid. He had been terrified.
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And now that Michael was gone, Arthur Vance—who had spent twenty years believing the evidence was destroyed—was still alive, wealthy, and powerful. And according to a sticky note attached to the final page of the file, Arthur had recently learned that Michael had passed away.
The note, written in Michael’s handwriting just weeks before he died, sent a jolt of pure adrenaline through my veins: “If you’re reading this, Clover, he knows I’m gone. He will come looking for the briefcase. You need to find it before he finds you.”
