Screwdrivers and wrenches at first… then, at the very bottom, wrapped in plastic, I found it.
Not money. Not jewelry.
A thick envelope.
Inside were documents — property deeds, bank transfer records, and a handwritten letter in my father’s careful script.
My name was on the first line.
If you’re reading this, it means April tried to take the box. Don’t trust her.
My breath caught.
The papers showed that my dad had transferred ownership of his small construction business to me six months before he died. Quietly. Legally. Completely.
But that wasn’t all.
There were copies of withdrawals — large ones — made from his personal accounts over the last year. Signed by April. Nearly $80,000.
And then the final page.
A life insurance policy.
Primary beneficiary: Me.
But scribbled across a printed email was proof that April had tried to change it two weeks before he passed — claiming he was “mentally unfit” and needed her as guardian over his finances.
There was even a voice recording device taped to the inside of the toolbox lid.
I stared at it for a long time before pressing play.
It was Dad’s voice. Weak, but steady.
“Son… if April’s offering money for this box, it’s because she knows what’s inside. I caught her moving money from my accounts. I confronted her. She panicked. If anything happens to me suddenly… don’t ignore it.”
My stomach twisted.
Dad hadn’t died peacefully in his sleep like she’d told everyone.
He’d died from a “sudden heart complication.”
One she’d insisted didn’t require an autopsy.
The next morning, I went to a lawyer.
Within weeks, everything unraveled.
The bank launched an investigation. The attempted insurance change flagged fraud. Her withdrawals were traced. And when the authorities reopened Dad’s medical records, inconsistencies surfaced — medication dosages altered, prescriptions refilled early.
April was arrested on charges of financial exploitation and fraud. The medical investigation was still ongoing when she called me from jail.
“You ruined my life over a stupid box,” she hissed.
I almost laughed.
“No,” I said calmly. “Dad saved mine.”
The toolbox stayed exactly where it had always been — by my door.
It was never about the tools.
It was about the truth he hid beneath them.
And the $5,000 she offered?
That was the cheapest part of her mistake.
