PART 4
I stared at the document for what felt like an entire minute.
My mother’s name was printed clearly across the page.
Evelyn Carter.
My mother.
The woman who had died when I was nine.
The woman whose voice I could barely remember.
The woman I had spent most of my childhood believing had left behind nothing but photographs, a few pieces of jewelry, and memories.
Yet here she was.
On the ownership papers of a recording studio worth more money than I had ever imagined.
I looked at Frank.
“What is this?”
He didn’t answer.
“Frank.”
He rubbed his hands together.
“Your father wanted you to find this yourself.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“I know.”
“Then answer it.”
Frank sighed.
“The studio originally belonged to your mother.”
I felt the air leave my lungs.
“My mother owned a recording studio?”
“Not exactly.”
He pulled another chair closer.
“Your mother owned the building.”
I looked around.
The acoustic panels.
The microphones.
The guitars.
The mixing desk.
The photographs.
All of it.
“How?”
Frank leaned back.
“Your mother came from a family with money.”
I almost laughed.
“What?”
“You didn’t know?”
“No.”
“Your father never told you?”
“He never told me anything.”
Frank looked down.
“That was one of the promises he made to her.”
“What promise?”
“To let you grow up without knowing what your mother’s family could give you.”
I stared at him.
“Why?”
“Because your mother wanted you to have a normal life.”
I shook my head.
“This isn’t normal.”
“No.”
Frank looked around the room.
“It isn’t.”
I picked up another document.
There were old property records.
Business registrations.
Bank transfers.
Contracts.
Some dated before I was even born.
I looked at the oldest one.
The property had originally been purchased by a company called Evelyn Records LLC.
My mother’s first name.
I felt dizzy.
“She started a record company?”
Frank nodded.
“With your father.”
I looked up sharply.
“What?”
“They met because of music.”
I knew that part.
Or at least I thought I did.
But Frank continued.
“Your father was the musician. Your mother was the business mind.”
I slowly sat down.
“So Mom wasn’t just Dad’s wife.”
Frank smiled sadly.
“She was the reason the band ever got as far as it did.”
I looked at the photographs again.
Suddenly, I noticed something I’d missed before.
In nearly every photograph, my mother was somewhere nearby.
Sometimes standing in the background.
Sometimes beside the band.
Sometimes holding papers.
Sometimes laughing with them.
She hadn’t simply watched Dad perform.
She had been part of it.
A major part.
“Why didn’t Dad tell me?”
Frank looked at me.
“Because after she died, everything changed.”
“How?”
“Your father blamed himself.”
“For her death?”
“No.”
Frank hesitated.
“For what happened before it.”
My heart started pounding.
“What happened?”
Frank stood.
“Come with me.”
He walked toward a locked cabinet in the corner of the studio.
I hadn’t noticed it before.
He took a key from his pocket.
I stared at it.
“You had that?”
“Your father gave it to me years ago.”
He unlocked the cabinet.
Inside were boxes.
Dozens of them.
Photographs.
Contracts.
Letters.
Old cassette tapes.
A small jewelry box.
And one large envelope marked:
DO NOT OPEN UNTIL HE KNOWS THE TRUTH.
I stared at the words.
“What truth?”
Frank didn’t answer.
He handed me the envelope.
My hands shook.
“I don’t think I want to know.”
“Yes, you do.”
I looked at him.
“Why?”
“Because your father spent the last five years making sure you would.”
I swallowed.
I opened the envelope.
Inside was a letter.
This one wasn’t from Dad.
The handwriting was different.
Softer.
More delicate.
I knew it immediately.
Even though I hadn’t seen it in fourteen years.
It was my mother’s handwriting.
I pressed my fingers against the page.
Then I read the first line.
“To my son, when you are old enough to understand.”
My vision blurred.
I sat down.
Frank walked away, giving me privacy.
I began reading.
My mother wrote about my father.
About their first meeting.
About the band.
About the first song Dad ever played for her.
She wrote that she had fallen in love with him because he was fearless when he played music.
But there was one thing she loved even more.
His kindness.
She described a night when the band had been performing at a small club.
A homeless man had been standing outside in the cold.
Dad had noticed him.
After the show, Dad gave him his entire night’s pay.
My mother wrote:
“He pretended it didn’t matter, but I knew it did.”
I smiled through my tears.
That sounded like the father I had never known.
Then the letter became more serious.
My mother explained that when she discovered she was pregnant with me, she became frightened.
Not because she didn’t want me.
Because she knew her health was already deteriorating.
She had been diagnosed with a serious condition.
She didn’t know how much time she had.
And she feared leaving behind a child who would only remember her as someone who was sick.
So she made a plan.
She wanted Dad to continue performing.
She wanted him to take the tour.
She wanted him to keep the studio.
She wanted me to grow up around music.
But Dad refused.
He stayed.
He gave up the tour.
And according to Mom, that decision broke his heart.
Not because he regretted me.
Because he believed he had failed her.
The letter continued.
“If he tells you he gave up everything for you, don’t believe him.”
I stopped.
I read the sentence again.
Then again.
My heart raced.
The next line said:
“Your father didn’t lose his dream. He chose another one.”
I began crying.
The letter explained that Dad had decided his new dream would be raising me.
But there was something else.
Something Mom had apparently been planning before she died.
She had created a trust.
A trust containing the studio.
Music equipment.
Royalties from several old recordings.
And money from the sale of the family’s original record company.
The trust was supposed to transfer to me when I turned twenty-five.
I stared at the date.
I was twenty-three when Dad died.
I still had two years before the trust was supposed to become mine.
Then I found something strange.
Dad had apparently changed the arrangement.
The trust was now scheduled to transfer immediately after his death.
I looked at Frank.
“Why?”
He looked uncomfortable.
“Your father amended it.”
“When?”
“About six months before he died.”
“Why?”
Frank sat down.
“Because he knew he wouldn’t live until your twenty-fifth birthday.”
My throat tightened.
I looked back at the letter.
Then I saw something written near the bottom.
“There is one person your father does not want you to meet.”
I froze.
A name appeared underneath.
Thomas Mercer.
My father’s former manager.
I looked up.
“Who is Thomas Mercer?”
Frank’s expression changed.
“That’s Daniel’s brother.”
“Daniel?”
“The producer.”
I remembered the name from the songbook.
Daniel Mercer.
I stared at Frank.
“Why doesn’t Dad want me to meet his brother?”
“Because your father believed Thomas betrayed him.”
“Betrayed him how?”
Frank didn’t answer.
“Frank.”
“He stole something.”
“What?”
“Your father’s music.”
I frowned.
“I don’t understand.”
“Years ago, before you were born, your father recorded an album.”
“So?”
“Thomas sold the master recordings without your father’s permission.”
I stared at him.
“To who?”
Frank shook his head.
“We never found out.”
“But if Mom owned the company…”
“She did.”
“Then how could he sell them?”
“He forged documents.”
I felt sick.
“Was he arrested?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because your mother stopped the investigation.”
I stared at him.
“Why would she do that?”
Frank looked away.
“Because Thomas threatened your father.”
My stomach tightened.
“What kind of threat?”
Frank took a breath.
“He told your father that if he went to the police, certain people would learn things about your mother that she desperately wanted kept private.”
I felt a chill.
“What things?”
Frank’s eyes met mine.
“That she had been sick long before you were born.”
I didn’t understand.
“That wasn’t a secret.”
“It was from you.”
I stood.
“So Thomas knew?”
“Yes.”
“And he used her illness against them?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Money.”
Frank’s voice became bitter.
“Thomas wanted control of the catalog.”
I looked at the old records.
“Did he get it?”
“Partially.”
“How?”
“He managed to disappear with several original tapes.”
I looked at the studio.
“Are those tapes here?”
Frank didn’t answer.
“Are they?”
He slowly shook his head.
“No.”
“Then where are they?”
“That is the question your father spent twenty years trying to answer.”
I stared at him.
“Twenty years?”
“Yes.”
“And he never found them?”
Frank paused.
“He found them.”
My heart stopped.
“What?”
“He found them three weeks before he died.”
I couldn’t speak.
“Where?”
Frank pointed toward the locked cabinet.
“Your father hid them here.”
I rushed toward it.
Frank grabbed my arm.
“Wait.”
“What?”
“There are people who still want those tapes.”
I froze.
“Who?”
“Thomas Mercer.”
“But he’s old.”
“He’s alive.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he called your father two weeks before he died.”
My blood ran cold.
“What did he say?”
Frank’s voice dropped.
“He offered your father money.”
“How much?”
“One million dollars.”
I stared at him.
“For what?”
“The tapes.”
“And Dad refused?”
“Yes.”
“Then what happened?”
Frank looked at me.
“He told Thomas something.”
“What?”
Frank swallowed.
“He said, ‘My son is going to hear those songs.’”
I looked toward the studio speakers.
Suddenly the room felt much smaller.
“Where are the tapes?”
Frank pointed toward the wall.
“Behind that photograph.”
I walked over.
The photograph showed my father and the band standing on a stage.
I removed it carefully.
Behind it was a small metal door.
I stared.
“There’s a safe?”
Frank nodded.
I entered the combination.
The lock clicked.
I opened the door.
Inside were six reel-to-reel tapes.
Each one had a date.
Each one had a handwritten title.
I picked up the first.
Then I noticed something.
The title wasn’t a song.
It was my name.
“FOR MY SON — ORIGINAL MASTER.”
I looked at Frank.
“What is this?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re lying.”
He looked at me sadly.
“I know what your father told me.”
“What?”
“He said the first tape would explain everything.”
I put the tape down.
“Then let’s hear it.”
Frank hesitated.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
We carried the tape to the old machine.
Frank connected the cables.
The reels began turning.
Static filled the room.
Then I heard my father’s younger voice.
“Test.”
A pause.
“Is it recording?”
Another voice answered.
My mother’s.
“Yes.”
I froze.
I had not heard my mother’s voice since I was nine.
My knees nearly gave out.
Her voice was warm.
Gentle.
Alive.
Dad laughed softly.
“Okay. Let’s do it.”
Mom said:
“Before you start, promise me something.”
“What?”
“If our son ever hears this…”
A pause.
“Don’t let him believe you stayed because you had no choice.”
Dad laughed.
“I know.”
“No. Promise me.”
“I promise.”
The tape continued.
Then Mom said something that made my entire body go cold.
“If I’m not here when he grows up, there is something I need him to know.”
The recording crackled.
Her voice became softer.
“Your father didn’t abandon music.”
A pause.
“He gave it to you.”
I covered my mouth.
Then the tape abruptly stopped.
Frank stared at the machine.
“What happened?”
“I don’t know.”
He checked the equipment.
“The tape isn’t finished.”
“What?”
“There should be more.”
He rewound it.
The same recording played again.
Then, at exactly the same moment, the audio cut out.
Frank looked at me.
“The tape has been damaged.”
“Can it be repaired?”
“Probably.”
“Then repair it.”
“I know someone.”
“Who?”
Frank looked toward the door.
“Daniel Mercer.”
I stared at him.
“The man my father told me to ask about the song?”
“Yes.”
“But Dad didn’t want me meeting Thomas.”
“No.”
“Then why would he send me to Daniel?”
Frank’s face went pale.
“Because Daniel isn’t Thomas.”
I looked down at the tape.
And suddenly everything became more complicated.
Dad had left me the studio.
The money.
The songs.
The letters.
The tapes.
But he had also left me names.
Questions.
And unfinished business.
I picked up the final tape.
It had no title.
Only one sentence written across it:
“PLAY THIS LAST.”
I looked at Frank.
“What happens if I play it?”
He shook his head.
“I don’t know.”
I turned the tape over.
On the back, Dad had written something else.
A sentence that made my blood run cold.
“If I am dead when you hear this, someone has already lied to you.”
I looked at Frank.
He was staring at the sentence too.
Neither of us spoke.
Then my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I almost ignored it.
But something told me not to.
I answered.
“Hello?”
Silence.
Then a man’s voice.
Old.
Calm.
And unmistakably threatening.
“Are you Daniel’s nephew?”
I froze.
“Who is this?”
The man laughed quietly.
“You shouldn’t have opened your father’s studio.”
My heart pounded.
“Who are you?”
Another pause.
Then he said:
“My name is Thomas Mercer.”
The call ended.
I stared at the phone.
Frank’s face had gone completely white.
Then we heard something outside.
A car door slammed.
Then another.
Frank immediately turned off the lights.
“Don’t move.”
I whispered:
“What’s happening?”
He looked toward the windows.
“Someone followed you here.”
My heart began racing.
Outside, footsteps approached the building.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Then someone tried the front door.
The handle moved.
Once.
Twice.
Frank whispered:
“Whatever happens…”
He looked at the tapes.
“Don’t let them take those.”
The door handle moved again.
And then a man’s voice came from the other side.
“Open the door.”
I knew that voice.
It was the voice from the phone.
Thomas Mercer.
And he wasn’t alone.
Because another voice followed.
A voice I recognized from somewhere I couldn’t place.
A voice that made Frank suddenly whisper:
“Oh no.”
I turned toward him.
“Who is that?”
Frank stared at the door.
Then he said something that made my blood run cold.
“That’s your mother’s brother.”
I couldn’t breathe.
My mother’s brother.
A man I had never heard of.
A man Dad had apparently hidden from me my entire life.
And now he was standing outside the studio.
With Thomas Mercer.
The door handle stopped moving.
Silence.
Then someone knocked.
Three slow knocks.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
And a voice whispered through the door:
“It’s time you learned why your mother really died.”
I stared at Frank.
He looked terrified.
And for the first time since opening my father’s box, I understood something.
The studio wasn’t the inheritance.
The studio was the evidence.
And whatever had happened to my mother fourteen years ago…
Someone was willing to do almost anything to make sure I never discovered the truth….
