backward and thunked against the wood-paneled wall.
Trying not to get dust in her nose, Penelope carried the bass to the discard box. The inscribed metal plate under the fish’s belly read Caddo Lake Largemouth Bass, 20 inches, 4.88 pounds, July 5, 2013. Andrew had been so proud of that catch. He’d bragged about it at cookouts for the rest of that summer and on occasion afterward, when the topic of fishing came up. Maybe she should... No! Get rid of it. The new house would not have room for all of Andrew’s valuable things, much less his junk.
As she strolled back across the room to continue the packing, she noticed a dent in the wall where the fish plaque had banged the paneling. Great. Something else to repair before the new owners took possession. Penelope lifted a hand to rub her fingers over the indentation, and as she stroked the wood paneling she found that the wall had unexpected give. When she pushed a little harder, a section of the paneling came loose and fell back into a recess behind the wall.
“Lovely,” she grumbled under her breath. “Now instead of a dent you have to replace a whole—” She stopped mid-gripe and furrowed her brow. Behind the section of paneling that had come loose, a thick file folder and a small box rested on a horizontal two-by-four inside the wall. A hidden file? What could that be about? Had Andrew put this file and box there or had the house’s previous owner?
Before removing the hidden items, Penelope wiped her hand on her yoga pants and mentally tried to quell the nervous jumble in her gut. Probably an old case file and piece of evidence. No reason to think Andrew was keeping secrets from her. Maybe it wasn’t even Andrew’s. Maybe it was a rare jewel or coin collection with papers of authenticity worth thousands of dollars.
“And your financial worries will be over.” She gave a wry chuckle. “Dreamer. And maybe the moon is made of cheese.”
With a trembling hand, she lifted the file folder and box out of the secret cubbyhole and read the inscription on the file’s tab. Hugh Barrington.
Penelope drew her eyebrows together in a frown. What in the world? She walked over to Andrew’s desk and set the small box aside as she sank into his office chair and opened the file. Heart pounding, she paged through the documents and photocopies of receipts. The pages all looked pretty routine. Copies of billing statements for her father’s time working for his clients, receipts for business lunches and hotels. Tax returns.
Penelope examined the tax return more closely and whistled. Her father still earned a boatload of money, most of it from his wealthiest clients. The Colton family topped that list, she noted, seeing how many billable hours he’d charged them.
“Suckers,” she grumbled, setting that document aside when a strange gnawing sensation bit her gut. Thoughts of the Coltons invariably led her back to memories of how Andrew had died. Reid Colton’s part in it. Reid’s appearance at Andrew’s funeral.
If you’d just hear me out, Pen, I only wanted—
But she’d shut him down, shut him out, walked away without listening. What could he possibly say to change things? He’d admitted he’d been the one to deliver the tainted shot that killed Andrew. He’d injected Andrew with potassium chloride, one of the chemicals used by states to administer the death penalty by lethal injection. He’d admitted to arguing with Andrew the morning her husband died. He’d confessed to making allegations against Andrew, claims he couldn’t prove, statements that tarnished her husband’s good name and reputation. What Reid had done was indefensible. What more could he have to say that would make a difference now?
You’ll never know if you don’t give him a chance to explain.
A chill raced through Penelope, and she quickly silenced the nagging voice that still unsettled her. The uneasiness inside her that wouldn’t let her close that chapter of her life and move on. Damn you, Reid Colton, for causing these doubts!
She’d once considered Reid a friend via his relationship with Andrew. Growing up, she’d thought Reid, the son of her father’s best client, was handsome, if rather spoiled and overbearing. She’d written off his snobbery as a sense of entitlement earned through his life of privilege. But his bossy and driven personality had proven to be assets as a police detective. Reid was smart, decisive and commanding, and he’d used those qualities to his advantage to rise quickly through the ranks at the Dallas PD. Andrew had often said he was lucky to be partnered with Reid. They complemented each other’s skills and had a good time together even outside of duty. All of which made Reid’s betrayal more difficult to swallow.
Penelope forced thoughts of Reid’s dastardly accusations and suspect actions out of her head. Clearing out Andrew’s office would be hard enough to endure without constantly dredging up the questions, heartaches and bitterness surrounding his death.
Rubbing her eyes with the pads of her fingers, she bent her head over the file again and studied the papers Andrew had collected about her father. At first glance, the file seemed innocent enough. But why would Andrew have hidden these papers in the secret compartment behind that hideous fish? She flipped faster through the pages of printouts and photocopies. What did it mean? Why—?
She stopped when she reached a spreadsheet Andrew had complied. God love him, Andrew had a thing about spreadsheets. They appealed to his sense of order, his nerdy perfectionism and love for analysis. She gave a sad chuckle as she scanned the grid of information, then froze when what she was reading penetrated the haze of her walk down memory lane.
The headings on the columns of data read: Evidence, Date, Research, Corroboration, Exclusions, Conclusions.
“Evidence? Corroboration? Andrew, what were you doing?” But the further she read, the more obvious the answer became. Her husband had been building a case against her father. Andrew had been keeping a secret file of evidence that pointed toward malpractice, tax evasion and other crimes against his clients. Double billing. Padded expense reports. Extortion.
A chill crept through Penelope. Was her father really guilty of all the wrongdoing laid out in Andrew’s file? Did Andrew have proof or were these just allegations he was investigating?
She slapped the file closed and rocked back in the swivel chair. Dear Lord! She’d never had a good relationship with her father, especially after the cold way he’d treated her mother before her death.
Hugh had acted as if his wife had gotten cancer merely to annoy him. He’d treated her as if he saw her as a burden and financial drain rather than the loving spouse, mother of his child and woman in physical and emotional pain that she was. Many other times through the years, Hugh had made it clear that he put the needs and wishes of his hoity-toity clients over the needs of his family. Sometimes Penelope couldn’t believe she’d survived the superficial and warped-priority world of Hugh Barrington and his cronies. Her life with her blue-collar husband had shocked her father, but she’d found a happiness and rootedness high society had never offered. Andrew had never been a fan of her father’s, either, but this...
She lifted the file and frowned. If Andrew was investigating her father, that was enough for her. She trusted he had probable cause, sufficient evidence to suspect Hugh. But what exactly had set off the warning bells for him? What should she do with the file Andrew had collected?
She couldn’t ignore it. If Hugh was doing something illegal, didn’t she have a responsibility to turn in the information to the authorities?
She chewed her bottom lip and sighed. If, just if Andrew was wrong, she didn’t want to be responsible for tarnishing her father’s name, no matter how bad her relationship with him was. And if Andrew did have a strong case against Hugh, why hadn’t he exposed his crimes? Did Andrew’s silence mean he hadn’t
