PART 2 — THE NOTE IN THE GLOVE COMPARTMENT
I stared at my name on the folded piece of paper.
For several seconds, I couldn’t bring myself to open it.
Why would Mrs. Whitmore leave a note for me after accusing me of stealing from her?
My hands were still shaking from the humiliation of what had happened at her house.
Finally, I unfolded it.
There were only a few lines.
Stan,
If you’re reading this, then I’ve probably already accused you of something you didn’t do.
I stopped breathing.
I read the sentence again.
Then I continued.
I’m sorry. I needed to know whether you would stay honest when you believed I had turned against you.
My heart started pounding.
There was more.
Do not return to my house yet. Take this car to the address written on the back of this note. Go alone. Do not tell my children where you’re going.
I turned the paper over.
An address was written there.
But what shocked me most was the sentence beneath it:
Ask for Daniel. Tell him the phrase: “White roses on Friday.”
I stared at the words.
What was going on?
Then my phone rang.
It was Mrs. Whitmore.
I answered immediately.
“Mrs. Whitmore?”
Her voice was barely above a whisper.
“Stan, listen carefully. Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
I looked around the mechanic’s garage.
“What’s happening?”
There was a long silence.
Then she said:
“My children are lying to me.”
My stomach tightened.
“What do you mean?”
“The diamond brooch wasn’t stolen.”
I gripped the phone.
“Then why did you accuse me?”
“Because I needed them to believe I suspected you.”
I didn’t understand.
“Mrs. Whitmore, I’m confused.”
“I know.”
Her voice trembled.
“For the past six months, I’ve been investigating my own family.”
She told me that shortly after her husband’s death, strange withdrawals had begun appearing in accounts connected to the family business.
Large amounts of money were disappearing.
At first, she thought it was an accounting mistake.
Then she discovered that several documents had been altered.
And every time she got close to finding the person responsible, one of her children somehow knew exactly what she had discovered.
“Someone is watching me,” she whispered.
I felt a chill run down my back.
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then what does this have to do with me?”
Another pause.
“Everything.”
I looked at the note again.
“Why did you leave this in the car?”
“Because I couldn’t trust anyone in my house.”
Her voice cracked.
“And I couldn’t trust my children.”
I suddenly remembered something.
Her son smirking when she accused me.
Her daughter standing with her arms crossed.
Neither had looked surprised.
“Mrs. Whitmore,” I said slowly, “did they know you were going to accuse me?”
“No.”
“Then why were they so calm?”
“Because they were expecting something else.”
“What?”
She didn’t answer.
Instead, she said:
“Go to the address.”
“And then?”
“You’ll meet Daniel.”
“Who is Daniel?”
Her voice became even quieter.
“Someone my husband trusted before he died.”
I looked toward the garage door.
“Are you in danger?”
Mrs. Whitmore didn’t answer directly.
“Stan, whatever happens tonight, don’t come back to the house.”
“Why?”
“Because my children believe you’re driving somewhere with the car.”
I froze.
“They’re following me?”
“I don’t know.”
Then she whispered:
“But if they find out about the note, they will come after you.”
The call suddenly ended.
I stood there holding the phone.
For the first time, I looked at the Mercedes differently.
The wealthy widow’s accusation suddenly seemed like a carefully planned test.
I grabbed the note and walked toward the driver’s door.
Then I noticed something I hadn’t seen before.
There was a tiny red light blinking beneath the dashboard.
A tracking device.
Someone had been monitoring the car.
And whoever installed it had made one enormous mistake.
They had no idea I’d just found it.
I pulled it loose.
Then my phone buzzed.
A message from an unknown number appeared on the screen.
“Don’t go to Daniel’s address.”
A second message arrived immediately.
“They already know you’re going.”
I stared at the screen.
Then a third message appeared.
“If you want to know why Mrs. Whitmore chose you, look inside the trunk.”
My heart stopped.
I slowly walked around the Mercedes.
I opened the trunk.
There was nothing unusual at first.
Just an emergency kit, a spare tire and an old blanket.
Then I lifted the blanket.
Beneath it was a black metal box.
It was locked.
And taped to the top was a photograph.
I picked it up.
The photograph showed Mrs. Whitmore standing beside her late husband.
But they weren’t alone.
Standing beside them was a much younger man.
I recognized him instantly.
My hands began to tremble.
Because the man in the photograph…
was my father.
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