Chapter 3 - WHAT THOMAS HID
We did not open Sophie’s toy stethoscope ourselves.
That was the hardest reasonable decision I made all night.
Dmitri wanted to.
I wanted to.
Detective Chen said no.
“If you believe it contains evidence related to a homicide, preserve it.”
So we did.
Sophie woke when Chen arrived.
“My doctor thing.”
I crouched.
“Police need to look at it.”
“Why?”
“Daddy may have put something inside.”
She frowned.
“Treasure?”
My throat closed.
“Maybe information.”
“Can I get it back?”
“If they can.”
She thought.
“Okay.”
Children can release objects adults turn into symbols.
I envied her.
The lab opened it the next morning.
Inside the hollow handle:
One microSD card.
Wrapped in tape.
No note.
Thomas had hidden it well.
Not from Sophie.
Inside something no criminal would think worth stealing.
The card was encrypted.
That delayed everything.
Then a technician found a second clue.
A tiny paper strip inside the battery compartment.
Four words in Thomas’s handwriting:
EMILY KNOWS OUR SONG.
I stared.
Our song.
Thomas and I had no elegant wedding song.
We danced to an old Springsteen track because the DJ lost the playlist.
But Thomas used to tease me about the first song we heard together in his car.
A terrible eighties song with a four-digit number in the title.
The password was not the title.
It was the year.
Plus Sophie’s birthday.
Simple enough for me.
Meaningless to strangers.
The encryption opened.
Detective Chen insisted I did not watch alone.
Good.
The first folder contained three short videos.
Thomas’s body camera? No.
His phone.
He must have copied them from the memory card found at the warehouse.
Video one:
A loading dock.
Smoke.
Men shouting.
Timestamp:
The night Thomas rescued Alexei.
The camera angle was high, likely a fixed warehouse security unit.
A black SUV entered.
Two men stepped out.
One was Dmitri.
The other was Roman Belov.
Alexei’s maternal uncle.
I had seen Roman twice in nineteen months.
Elegant.
Silver hair.
Board member of Petrov Global.
The kind of man who kissed women’s hands at charity dinners and made staff stop talking when he entered.
Video two showed Roman arguing with a warehouse manager named Leon Varga.
No audio.
Then Roman struck him.
Varga fell.
A third man dragged Varga toward an office.
Minutes later, explosion.
Not enough to prove cause.
But bad.
Video three had audio.
A different camera.
Roman speaking to someone offscreen.
“He talks tomorrow, we lose the port.”
Unknown voice:
“Alexei won’t approve.”
Roman:
“Then Alexei doesn’t know.”
My skin went cold.
Dmitri, watching with police, said nothing.
Detective Chen asked:
“Who is Leon Varga?”
Dmitri answered.
“Compliance director.”
“What happened to him?”
“Officially, died in warehouse fire.”
I looked at him.
“Officially?”
His jaw tightened.
“Body was recovered.”
“Did Alexei know Roman threatened him?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“No.”
Good.
No fake certainty.
Then the second folder.
Thomas’s own recordings.
The first was made the morning after the fire.
Thomas sitting in our car.
Face exhausted.
“Em.”
My knees weakened.
Three years.
His voice.
“If you’re seeing this, I did something stupid.”
I almost laughed through tears.
That was Thomas.
He continued.
“I found a memory card in a coat belonging to one of the men we pulled from the Archer warehouse.”
Alexei.
“I should turn it in. I know. But there were two cops outside the scene talking to a man from Petrov security before the fire marshal finished. I don’t know who’s clean.”
My chest tightened.
Thomas always trusted systems more than I did.
If he had doubted police, something scared him.
He continued.
“The card has video from inside the warehouse before the explosion. I copied it.”
Then:
“I’m giving the original back.”
What?
Dmitri said quietly:
“He did.”
Thomas’s recording continued.
“The man’s friend asked if I found anything in the coat. I said no. Then I put the card back later when no one watched.”
Dmitri closed his eyes.
He had been the friend.
Thomas kept only copy.
Why?
Because he wanted leverage if someone came after him.
Then:
“I’m not trying to be a hero. I just want to make sure if a man died because somebody thought business mattered more, it doesn’t disappear.”
My tears came.
Thomas hated injustice.
Not dramatically.
Practically.
He returned shopping carts.
Stopped for broken-down cars.
Wrote complaints when hospital bills made no sense.
Then:
“There’s a man named Roman Belov on the video.”
Dmitri’s face hardened.
Thomas continued.
“I looked him up. He’s Petrov’s uncle.”
Then:
“I called an attorney.”
Good.
Not vigilante.
“She says preserve and go federal if I can verify chain.”
Then second recording.
Three days later.
Thomas looked scared.
“Someone followed me from work.”
My stomach turned.
“I might be imagining it.”
Specific.
Always.
“Black Escalade. Same one twice.”
Then:
“I told Emily I’m picking up overtime. I hate lying.”
I covered my mouth.
He had said overtime.
Third recording.
Two weeks later.
Thomas:
“Roman Belov knows.”
Silence.
“He approached me outside the station.”
Dmitri swore under his breath.
Thomas continued.
“He said warehouse footage was company property. Asked what I copied.”
Then:
“I lied.”
My heart pounded.
“He smiled and said, ‘Good fathers know what not to bring home.’”
My blood went cold.
Sophie had been one.
Then Thomas said:
“I’m moving the copy.”
That was when he repaired the toy.
He continued.
“If something happens, Emily, I’m sorry. I thought holding proof was protection.”
I closed my eyes.
Everyone called secrecy protection.
Even Thomas.
Then:
“Do not go after them. Take this to someone outside Chicago.”
He named a federal inspector.
Retired now.
Detective Chen wrote it down.
Then the final file.
Dashcam footage from Thomas’s car.
Night he died.
Rain.
Windshield wipers.
Expressway ramp.
At 11:38 p.m., black SUV appears behind him.
At 11:41, moves close.
At 11:42, Thomas says aloud:
“Same plate.”
He reads numbers.
Then impact.
Camera spins.
Road barrier.
Lights.
The video ends.
My whole body went cold.
The SUV that hit Thomas had a plate.
Not full.
Almost.
Enough for investigators.
The old case file listed witnesses reporting “possible dark SUV.”
No plate.
Because Thomas’s phone disappeared at scene.
His dashcam memory had been copied to the hidden microSD earlier? Apparently the dashcam auto-backed up to his phone and he later synced certain clips. The final clip must have been uploaded to cloud storage linked to the card backup before the crash.
Technical details later.
Emotion now.
Thomas did not die in a random accident.
Someone followed him.
Someone hit him.
Maybe intentionally.
Maybe not.
The video did not prove motive.
Still.
It reopened everything.
Then Detective Chen asked Dmitri:
“Who drove black Escalades with that plate series?”
He stared at screen.
“Petrov security.”
My stomach dropped.
“Whose?”
Dmitri swallowed.
“Roman’s division.”
The room went quiet.
I looked at Alexei, who had been transferred from ICU to a private monitored room and joined the review by secure video only after doctors allowed twenty minutes.
His face had gone gray.
Not from allergy.
From recognition.
“Roman,” he whispered.
Dmitri said:
“Maybe.”
Alexei looked at him.
“No.”
Not certainty about murder.
Recognition of pattern.
Then he turned to me through screen.
“Emily.”
I stood.
“No.”
He stopped.
I did not want apology yet.
I wanted facts.
“Did you suspect Roman when Thomas died?”
Alexei looked away.
There.
My chest tightened.
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
“How strongly?”
“I knew Roman had argued with Varga. I knew Thomas had found something. I did not know he kept a copy.”
“Did you warn Thomas?”
“No.”
“Did you warn me?”
“No.”
“Why?”
Alexei closed his eyes.
“Because Roman was family.”
I laughed.
Cold.
“And Thomas wasn’t.”
“No.”
Alexei opened his eyes.
“That is not why I said nothing.”
“Then why?”
“Because accusing Roman without proof would split my organization, expose crimes, and possibly start violence.”
There.
Empire.
Not just family.
He protected the structure.
Thomas paid.
Alexei continued.
“I told myself I would investigate quietly.”
“Of course you did.”
He flinched.
Good.
“I put people on Roman.”
“After Thomas died?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Three years.”
“And you found nothing?”
“Enough to fear. Not enough to prove.”
“So you hired me.”
“Yes.”
“Without telling me my husband may have been murdered by your uncle.”
“Yes.”
My hands shook.
Sophie was not in room.
Good.
I said:
“You didn’t protect me.”
Alexei’s face tightened.
“I know.”
“You controlled where I worked, watched my home, and let me clean the house of the man whose family might have killed my husband.”
“Yes.”
“Then yesterday Sophie saved your life.”
Silence.
“She should never have been close enough to need to.”
Alexei closed his eyes.
That landed.
Then Detective Chen interrupted.
“Mr. Petrov, I need you to answer one question carefully.”
Alexei looked at her.
“Did Roman Belov know about your shellfish allergy?”
“Yes.”
“Did he know where you kept the desk injector?”
“Yes.”
“Did he have access to your study?”
“Not routinely.”
“Could he obtain it?”
Alexei said:
“Yes.”
Chen nodded.
“No conclusions.”
Good.
Then her phone buzzed.
She read.
Looked at us.
“The black SUV from Thomas’s dashcam has been traced through an old Petrov fleet record.”
My heart stopped.
“Who was assigned?”
Chen did not look at Alexei.
She looked at Dmitri.
“Dmitri Volkov.”
Silence.
I turned.
Dmitri’s face went white.
Alexei said his name once.
“Dmitri.”
Dmitri stared at the frozen dashcam frame.
Then whispered:
“I sold that vehicle two months before Thomas died.”
Detective Chen said:
“To who?”
May you like
Dmitri looked up.
“Roman Belov.”
