Chapter 4: The Man Who Had Been Dead for Seven Years
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
The hotel lobby seemed to disappear around me.
I could hear the rain hitting the glass doors, the distant hum of traffic, and the faint clicking of Margaret Cole's heels as she stepped closer to my phone.
But all I could see was the document.
My father's name.
His date of birth.
His photograph.
And a government-issued declaration stating that Thomas Henderson had died seven years earlier.
"Dad," I whispered.
"What is this?""
My father didn't answer.
Margaret took the phone from my hand and enlarged the scanned document.
"Thomas, have you ever reported this?""
"No.""
"Have you ever signed a death declaration?""
He looked at her.
"Margaret, I'm standing right here.""
"I know. I'm asking whether you ever authorized anyone to do this.""
"No.""
She examined the certificate again.
"There's a registration number here. This isn't an ordinary forged letter. Someone submitted supporting documentation.""
My stomach tightened.
"Who submitted it?""
Margaret shook her head.
"We'll need to obtain the underlying filing.""
Dad slowly sat down on a nearby sofa.
For the first time that night, he looked genuinely frightened.
Not for himself.
For me.
"Daniel, listen carefully.""
I crouched in front of him.
"What?""
"Whatever happens, don't confront George alone.""
I almost laughed.
"He's the man who tried to have you declared dead.""
"That's exactly why.""
Margaret placed the phone on the table.
"Thomas is right. If someone has manipulated official records, we need to establish the full chain of responsibility before making accusations.""
I stood.
"How can a man just declare someone dead?""
"Sometimes through fraudulent affidavits, falsified medical records, or identity theft," Margaret explained.
"But the certificate alone doesn't tell us who submitted the information or how it was approved.""
Dad stared at the floor.
Then he said something that changed the direction of the conversation.
"Seven years ago, I was in the hospital.""
I turned.
"What?""
"After the accident.""
"What accident?""
He looked uncomfortable.
"I never told you because I didn't want you worrying.""
Margaret pulled out a chair.
"Thomas, what accident?""
Dad rubbed his hands together.
"I was inspecting a warehouse roof outside Springfield. Part of the structure collapsed. I fell through a section of flooring.""
I remembered that year.
Dad had disappeared for almost two weeks.
He told me he'd been visiting an old friend.
I had been twenty-three, working my first full-time job, and too busy trying to prove myself to question him.
"You were injured?""
"Three cracked ribs. A broken shoulder. Nothing permanent.""
"Where were you treated?""
"St. Vincent Medical Center.""
Margaret's eyes narrowed.
"Which location?""
"Springfield.""
She immediately opened her briefcase.
"Thomas, do you remember whether anyone from Martinez Holdings visited you?""
Dad nodded slowly.
"George came by once.""
"Did you speak privately?""
"Yes.""
"What did he say?""
Dad looked toward the entrance.
"He told me he was worried about the company. Said the banks were asking questions about my absence. He wanted me to sign some temporary authorization papers.""
My chest tightened.
"Did you?""
"No.""
"Why?""
"Because he wouldn't let me read them properly.""
Margaret leaned forward.
"Do you remember the date?""
"July. Seven years ago.""
She pulled out her phone and started typing.
"That's when the death certificate was supposedly registered.""
A cold silence settled over us.
I looked at Dad.
"Did George know you were recovering?""
"Yes.""
"Then why would he do this?""
Dad stared at the floor.
"Because if the original founder died without a recognized successor, he believed the trust would become easier to challenge.""
Margaret nodded.
"Especially if he could persuade the authorities that Thomas had no surviving interest in the company.""
I felt sick.
For seven years, my father had continued working.
He had repaired boilers, fixed roofs, and taken construction jobs.
Meanwhile, someone had apparently been using his supposed death to manipulate the company he helped create.
I paced toward the windows.
"Did he steal your identity?""
"I don't know," Dad answered.
"Did he use your name?""
"I don't know, Daniel.""
"Did he—"
"Son.""
I stopped.
Dad looked at me.
"I know you're angry.""
"Angry?""
"Yes.""
I laughed bitterly.
"They told the world you were dead while you were still alive.""
His voice softened.
"That's why I need you to stay calm.""
Margaret closed her briefcase.
"I'll contact our independent forensic team first thing tomorrow. We need certified copies of the original records, the hospital admission documents, and the supporting affidavits.""
Dad nodded.
"Do whatever you need.""
Margaret stood.
"And Thomas?""
"Yes?""
"Don't go home tonight.""
Dad frowned.
"Why?""
"Because if someone has access to your personal records, they may know where you live.""
I felt my stomach drop.
Our house was an ordinary two-story property on a quiet street.
The kitchen still had the same wooden table where Dad helped me with homework.
The garage still contained his old tools.
It wasn't valuable.
But it was home.
I turned to Margaret.
"Can you arrange somewhere secure?""
"Already done.""
My phone buzzed again.
Fiona.
This time, she was calling.
I rejected it.
Then a message appeared.
*My father says your father has been involved in some questionable business dealings. You need to be careful about believing everything he tells you.*
I stared at the screen.
Another message followed.
*I still love you, Daniel. Don't let him destroy our future.*
I showed Dad.
He read it without changing expression.
Then he quietly said, "She knew.""
I looked at him.
"What?""
"She knew something was happening.""
"How can you be sure?""
He pointed at the message.
"She didn't ask what happened to me. She immediately warned you not to believe me.""
I felt something inside me break.
Margaret glanced at her watch.
"We should leave.""
As we walked toward the hotel entrance, my phone vibrated once more.
An email had arrived from Margaret's office.
The subject line was:
*PRELIMINARY RECORD MATCH — THOMAS HENDERSON.*
I opened it.
There were three attachments.
The first was my father's hospital admission record.
The second was a scanned affidavit.
The third was a photograph of the person who had signed as the attending physician on his supposed death certificate.
I enlarged the photograph.
Then I stopped breathing.
I recognized the man.
He had been standing beside George Martinez at our engagement party.
May you like
His name was Dr. Alan Whitmore.
And he was Fiona's uncle.
