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When Hunter arrived with a tall redhead he introduced as Anna, he handed Callum a large, white envelope. “The documents you requested.”
A look passed between the two brothers. Miranda tensed. What was going on? A shiver feathered down her spine.
The meeting broke up when Pauline came to remind them that they would need to eat soon to give enough time to make the Christmas Eve carols in the nearby village. Everyone dived for the doors to ready themselves for dinner, but Callum caught Miranda’s arm, restraining her from following the others.
“I have something for you.” He handed her the envelope Hunter had brought. “I called Hunter from the inn and asked him to bring this.”
She knew from the set of his jaw she wouldn’t like whatever that envelope contained.
“Open it.”
For a brief second she contemplated refusing and shoving it back at him, unopened. But curiosity got the better of her.
She lifted the flap and drew out the sheaf of papers stapled in the top corner. Her heartbeat accelerated. “What is this?”
“It’s a copy of your father’s confession—the original is in the police file. He signed it. I know I said earlier I wouldn’t raise this again, but it’s clear we’ve been talking at cross-purposes for some time.”
No triumph glowed on Callum’s face in the deathly silence that followed. Instead deep lines of concern cut into his forehead.
Miranda dropped into the chair beside the table where they’d plotted his mother’s surprise. All the lighthearted camaraderie of earlier had evaporated, leaving her drained.
She was suddenly quite sure she didn’t want to read the confession.
But she knew she had no choice. Not after the accusations she’d flung at Callum almost three years ago. Not after her hostility and resentment over the past few weeks.
It hurt unbearably to read of her father’s desperation. Of his admission of stealing—
“One million pounds!” Shocked, her eyes flew to Callum’s. “How?”
“By a false claim on a bogus life policy.”
She bit back a stream of questions. Drawn inexorably back, she read the confession through to the end, her heart clenching when she reached her father’s familiar signature at the end of the document.
Had he written that sweet, loving note absolving himself of all responsibility after this stark admission of his guilt?
She’d never know.
“In case you think that’s a forgery—the police have the original along with a certificate of identification. Once your father died, they dropped the criminal charges against him—and the company chose not to pursue civil action against your father’s estate after the bulk of the funds were recovered.”
The slim thread of hope that Callum had been mistaken or misinformed snapped. The charges against her father had never been unfair or trumped up. And Callum was clearly in no way responsible for her father’s death. “Where did you find the money?”
“From accounts in your father’s name.”
Callum stood a few feet away, arms folded, offering none of the support she’d become accustomed to. And Miranda knew she deserved none. The distance between them yawned wider than it had ever been.
She said nothing. There was nothing to say.
“And before you point out the confession could have been forced, the bank manager identified your father as the person who’d opened an account in the name of the fictitious deceased. When the large deposit arrived, he became suspicious. And when he discovered that your father’s name—the only contact telephone number on the account—didn’t match the account holder, he notified the bank’s fraud department. His statement was corroborated by video footage showing Thomas entering the bank on the date that the fictitious account was opened.” Callum related the facts in a remote tone that gave no comfort. “There are other equally damning statements on file. No way such a body of evidence could be falsified.”
Her father was guilty.
For years, hatred for Callum had sustained her, given her someone to blame for the hopeless sense of loss and disorientation after her father’s death. The unanswerable questions that had haunted her.
