Brother’s Last Video: A Shocking Discovery

I almost didn’t go—I hate funerals, hate the smell of lilies and old wood.

The lawyer called me up after, said he had something of Mark’s. It was a phone—smashed screen—but he got a video off it. “You need to see this,” he said, voice all tight. I keep replaying it in my head. The low hum of the air conditioner in the office, the scratchy leather of the chair.

It was Mark, his face all red and sweaty, leaning into the camera. “They know,” he kept saying, his voice cracking. “They KNOW about the money, Lisa.” Then, he looked right at me. The fluorescent lights reflected in his wide, scared eyes.

The video cut off abruptly. The lawyer just stared at me, his face blank. I asked him, “What money? What are you talking about?” He just shook his head.

But then a cop walked in, said they needed to ask me some questions.

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The cop was young, with tired eyes. He didn’t introduce himself, just nodded towards a spare chair. “Ms. Vance?” he asked, his voice flat. “About your brother, Mark.”

My stomach clenched. “Is… was it an accident?” I asked, hating how my voice trembled. No one at the funeral had said, not directly.

He didn’t answer the question. Instead, he pulled out a small notebook. “When was the last time you spoke to him?”

“A few days ago? Maybe four? He called, rambling about needing to get out of town, said he’d be in touch.” I remembered thinking he sounded stressed, but Mark was always stressed about something.

“Did he mention any trouble? Any money trouble?” the cop pressed, looking up sharply. His eyes met mine, cool and assessing.

“Money?” I repeated, the word echoing Mark’s frantic video. “No. Not specific trouble. He just… he always worried about bills, same as everyone.”

“Did he ever mention large sums of money? People looking for him? Any specific names?”

“No. Never.” A lie. The video replayed in my head: “They know about the money, Lisa.” Who were “they”? What money? My head was spinning. The lawyer sat silent, a statue behind his desk.

The cop scribbled something. “We found him… it wasn’t straightforward, Ms. Vance. There are questions about the circumstances.”

“Circumstances?” My voice was barely a whisper. Not an accident. The implication hit me like a physical blow. Mark hadn’t died in some random mishap. Someone had done this. “The video… the lawyer showed me a video from his phone. Mark said ‘They know about the money’. He looked terrified.”

The cop glanced at the lawyer, who finally spoke, his voice low. “It was on his device. Seemed pertinent.”

The cop turned back to me. “Did you have any idea what he might have been involved in, Ms. Vance? Anything that could lead someone to… harm him?”

I shook my head numbly. Mark wasn’t involved in anything like that. He worked a dead-end retail job, played video games, complained about rent. This was insane.

“Think, Ms. Vance,” the cop urged. “Did he show up with anything new? Talk about a quick way to make cash? Was he secretive?”

Quick way to make cash… Mark had shown up at my place a couple of months ago, buzzing with excitement. He’d had a beat-up old briefcase with him. “Got something big, Liss,” he’d whispered, looking over his shoulder. “Something that’ll change everything.” I’d just laughed it off, another of Mark’s schemes. I hadn’t asked what was in the briefcase. Now, the memory chilled me to the bone.

“He had… he had a briefcase,” I stammered. “A while back. Said it was something big. I didn’t… I didn’t see what was inside.”

The cop leaned forward, his demeanor changing slightly, becoming more focused. “A briefcase. Did he say where he got it? Or who it belonged to?”

“No. Just that it was ‘big’. He seemed… paranoid. Like he was being watched.” Like in the video.

“Did he keep it with him?”

“I don’t know. He left my place, took it with him.” My mind raced. The money. Was it *in* the briefcase? And who knew about it?

The cop stood up. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Vance. We may need to speak to you again.” He gave me a card. “If you remember anything else, anything at all, you call this number immediately. Especially if anyone contacts you about Mark’s belongings… or anything else.”

I left the lawyer’s office in a daze, the city noise assaulting me. Mark wasn’t just dead. He was murdered. Because of something in a briefcase.

Driving home, I rerouted. I went to Mark’s tiny, messy apartment. The police tape was gone. Inside, it was still Mark’s world – clothes on the floor, empty pizza boxes, tangled wires. I searched frantically, tearing through drawers, lifting mattresses. No briefcase. Nothing that looked like a large sum of money.

Then I saw it. Tucked under a loose floorboard near his desk was a small, leather-bound journal. Mark’s messy handwriting filled the pages. Most of it was mundane: grocery lists, doodles, complaints about his boss. But near the back, the tone changed.

*June 14th: It’s real. Saw it myself. Worth… I can’t even write the number.*
*June 18th: Problem. It wasn’t supposed to be *this*. Wrong place, wrong time.*
*June 20th: He wants it back. Said he’ll find me.*
*June 22nd: They’re watching the usual spots. Can’t go home. Need to move it. Need help.*
*June 24th: Lisa? Maybe Lisa can hold it? She’s not involved.*
*June 25th: No. Too risky for her. Need another way. Don’t trust anyone now.*
*June 26th: They know I have it. I saw them.*
*June 27th: Making the video. If anything happens. They know about the money, Lisa.*

My breath hitched. June 27th. The day before the police said he died. “They know about the money, Lisa.” He wasn’t just talking *to* me in the video; he was leaving me a message, maybe explaining what happened if he couldn’t. The briefcase wasn’t just money. It was *wrong*.

The journal didn’t say what ‘it’ was or who ‘he’ or ‘they’ were. But it confirmed Mark’s death wasn’t random. He’d stumbled into something dangerous, something someone wanted back enough to kill for. And he’d thought about involving me.

A floorboard creaked behind me. I spun around, heart hammering. Standing in the doorway was a man I didn’t recognize, dressed in a dark suit. He wasn’t a cop.

“Lisa Vance?” he asked, his voice smooth but cold. “We need to talk about your brother’s affairs. And the item he took.”

My blood ran cold. They knew about the video. They knew Mark mentioned me. They were here. The mystery of the money was terrifyingly close to being revealed, and I was standing right in the middle of it. The lawyer’s blank face, the cop’s questions, Mark’s desperate video – it all converged on this moment. I understood, with a sickening certainty, that Mark’s death was just the beginning.