“No.”
Alex stared at the screen.
Then whispered, “Thomas.”
The final paragraph of my father's letter explained.
I built the company using money taken from the network over thirty years—money they believed had disappeared through fraud, theft, failed investments, and internal betrayal. I stole from criminals who had stolen from thousands of people. Every cent was traced. Every victim I could identify is documented.
You now control the fund.
Do what I could not. Give it back.
There was no request for forgiveness.
No explanation of where he had gone.
Only one final sentence.
Tell Sophie that the night she refused to sign a piece of paper, she ended a machine that had survived for three generations.
My father was never found.
Some believed he died months later.
Others believed he fled overseas.
Alex thought he was still alive.
I wasn't sure I wanted to know.
For a long time, I hated him.
