Chapter 8 - Thirty-Three Minutes
The investigation into my father's death reopened quietly.
I told nobody outside the legal team.
Not the board.
Not Carla.
Not Margaret.
Especially not Marcus.
Detectives retrieved the original paramedic records.
Dad had been alive when the ambulance arrived.
Barely.
He died at the hospital forty-two minutes later.
One doctor wrote something that hadn't mattered at the time.
Delay in initiation of emergency treatment may have contributed to poor outcome.
I read it until the words blurred.
Thirty-three minutes.
What had they been doing?
Murder was an easy story.
Too easy.
The truth was somehow uglier.
Detective Ruiz interviewed Margaret in the detention center.
She denied Marcus had been present.
Ruiz showed her the gate log.
Margaret changed her story.
“He stopped by briefly.”
“Why didn't you mention him three years ago?”
“I forgot.”
“You forgot the CFO visited your husband immediately before his fatal medical emergency?”
“I was grieving.”
“What happened between 8:13 and 8:46?”
“I don't remember.”
“You told paramedics you found Richard at 8:40.”
“I was confused.”
“What were you doing?”
“I said I don't remember.”
That was all she gave them.
Marcus did worse.
He claimed he left Dad alive.
“Richard was angry when I left.”
“About what?”
“Business.”
“Which business?”
“Confidential.”
Detectives reminded him Dad had been dead for three years.
Marcus requested an attorney.
The board finally learned enough to place him on administrative leave.
His reaction was immediate.
He called me.
“This is insane.”
“The police are investigating Dad's death.”
“And you think I caused it?”
“I think you lied about being there.”
“I was protecting your mother.”
“From what?”
“Scandal.”
That word again.
It had poisoned our family for decades.
“What happened?”
“Ask Margaret.”
“I am asking you.”
“She found documents.”
“What documents?”
“Evidence of Desert Crown.”
“And?”
“She begged Richard not to expose Carla.”
“What did Dad say?”
“That he was going to the board.”
“Then?”
“He started having chest pain.”
My throat tightened.
“What did you do?”
“I told Margaret to call 911.”
“Did she?”
Silence.
“Marcus.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“She wanted him to sign something first.”
Everything inside me stopped.
“What?”
“A nondisclosure agreement.”
I couldn't speak.
“She wanted a dying man to sign paperwork?”
“He wasn't dying when it started.”
“What did you do?”
“I left.”
“You left?”
“I panicked.”
“You left my father having a cardiac event because you didn't want to be involved?”
“Yes.”
“Thirty-three minutes.”
“I didn't know she waited that long.”
I almost threw the phone.
Instead I asked:
“What did she want him to sign?”
“A statement protecting Carla.”
“From criminal exposure?”
“Yes.”
“Did he sign?”
“No.”
“What did Mom do after you left?”
“I don't know.”
I didn't believe him.
But part of his story checked out.
Dad's papers included an unsigned draft agreement.
It stated that Desert Crown transactions had occurred without Carla's knowledge.
A lie.
Someone wanted Dad's signature.
He refused.
Then collapsed.
Margaret didn't call immediately.
She searched his office.
We knew because Dad's housekeeper, Rosa Delgado, finally agreed to speak.
Rosa had worked for my parents for seventeen years.
She retired shortly after Dad died.
I called her personally.
She cried when she heard my voice.
“I am sorry, Mr. Austin.”
“For what?”
“I should have told you.”
She had been in the guest wing that night.
Not supposed to be working.
Her husband was in the hospital, and she had returned to retrieve medication she accidentally left in the staff refrigerator.
She heard voices.
Dad.
Margaret.
Marcus.
Dad shouted:
“You forged my son's name.”
Then a crash.
Rosa moved toward the library.
She saw Dad on the floor.
Margaret kneeling beside him.
Not helping him.
Searching his jacket.
Marcus stood near the desk.
“What happened next?”
“Mr. Marcus said call ambulance.”
“And Mom?”
“She said, ‘Not until I find it.’”
I closed my eyes.
“What was she looking for?”
“I don't know.”
“How long were you there?”
“Maybe ten minutes.”
“You didn't call?”
Her voice broke.
“I was afraid.”
I hated hearing it.
Then reminded myself fear had ruled our entire house.
“What happened?”
“Mr. Marcus left.”
“And Mom?”
“She went through drawers.”
“While Dad was on the floor?”
“Yes.”
“Was he conscious?”
“For some time.”
“What did he say?”
Rosa began crying harder.
“He kept saying your name.”
I couldn't breathe.
“What exactly?”
“Austin knows.”
“Knows what?”
“I don't know.”
Then Rosa remembered something else.
Dad reached toward a small wooden box on the lowest library shelf.
Margaret noticed.
She took it.
“Did she open it?”
“Yes.”
“What was inside?”
“An envelope.”
“What did it say?”
Rosa thought.
“Something about Phoenix.”
Phoenix.
Desert Crown.
My father's missing letter.
“What happened to it?”
“Mrs. Margaret put it inside her dress.”
“And then?”
“She called ambulance.”
Not murder.
Not in the simple sense.
Something perhaps harder to understand.
My mother watched my father collapse.
And instead of immediately calling for help, she spent precious minutes searching for evidence that could destroy her daughter.
Dad died protecting the truth.
May you like
Margaret had chosen Carla's secret over her husband's life.
And Carla still didn't know.
