Chapter 4 - The Man in the PhotographThe police arrived before dawn.
I didn't trust them.
Not after reading Isabelle's notebook.
Not after discovering cameras in my daughters' rooms.
Not after finding blood belonging to someone who had vanished from a locked house.
I gave them the footage anyway.
They found nothing.
No bullet.
No fingerprints.
No sign of forced entry.
Marcus was missing.
By noon, every news network in New York was reporting that my head of security had disappeared.
Then another story appeared.
Marcus Reed was dead.
Apparently, his body had been found in his car on a deserted road fifty miles away.
Two bullets.
One in the chest.
One in the head.
The medical examiner estimated the time of death.
2:40 a.m.
Exactly when I had seen him in my hallway.
I stared at the report.
Impossible.
Unless the man in my house wasn't Marcus.
That thought followed me into sleep.
At 3:00 p.m., Grace came into my office.
She carried an envelope.
“Someone left this for you.”
“Where?”
“On the front gate.”
No name.
No fingerprints.
Inside was a photograph.
Isabelle standing outside the preschool.
Three days before she died.
Beside her was Marcus.
And beside Marcus was another man.
I knew him.
My blood ran cold.
It was my older brother, Daniel.
Daniel had been dead for seven years.
Killed in a boating accident.
Or so I had been told.
I dropped the photograph.
Grace picked it up.
“Who is he?”
“My brother.”
She stared.
“He died seven years ago.”
Grace's face tightened.
“Then we have a problem.”
That night, I called the man who had handled Daniel's death certificate.
He answered from Florida.
“Daniel's death was confirmed?”
“Yes.”
“Body identified?”
“Yes.”
“By whom?”
Silence.
“I asked you a question.”
“The family.”
“Which family member?”
Another pause.
“Isabelle.”
I froze.
My wife had identified Daniel's body.
But the photograph proved Daniel had been alive three days before Isabelle died.
I ran upstairs.
Olivia was sitting on her bed drawing.
I placed the photograph in front of her.
Her face went pale.
“You know him?”
She nodded.
“Who is he?”
She whispered:
“Uncle Daniel.”
“How?”
“Mommy said he was bad.”
“What did he do?”
Olivia looked toward the window.
“He came to our room at night.”
“When?”
“Before Mommy died.”
I knelt.
“What did he say?”
“He told Mommy she had to stop.”
“Stop what?”
She shook her head.
“I don't remember.”
“You do.”
She started crying.
“I remember one thing.”
“What?”
“He said Daddy couldn't know.”
My heartbeat accelerated.
“What was he afraid I'd find out?”
Olivia didn't answer.
Instead, she pointed at the door.
Grace stood there.
Olivia immediately stopped crying.
“Daddy.”
“Yes?”
“Don't trust her.”
I turned toward Grace.
She didn't move.
“Why?”
Olivia looked terrified.
“She was there when Mommy died.”
Grace's face collapsed.
I stared at her.
“Is that true?”
Grace's eyes filled with tears.
“Yes.”
My hand moved toward the gun.
“Then tell me everything.”
She nodded slowly.
“I was at the preschool.”
“Why?”
“To protect Isabelle.”
“You failed.”
“Yes.”
“Who killed her?”
Grace looked directly at me.
“I don't know.”
“Then what do you know?”
She whispered:
“Your wife wasn't supposed to die that day.”
“What?”
“The plan was to take her.”
“Who planned it?”
She swallowed.
“Your brother.”
“Daniel?”
“Yes.”
“But he's dead.”
Grace looked toward the photograph.
“He isn't.”
The room seemed to shrink around us.
Then my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
A distorted voice spoke.
“You're getting closer.”
“Who are you?”
“Ask yourself why your daughters stopped speaking.”
My eyes moved toward Olivia.
The voice continued:
“They didn't stop because their mother died.”
I felt my stomach drop.
“They stopped because they saw what happened next.”
The call ended.
Olivia was shaking.
I crouched beside her.
“What happened next?”
She looked at me.
And for the first time since Isabelle died, she told me the truth.
“We saw Mommy's killer take her body.”
I stared.
“The police said she died there.”
Olivia shook her head.
“No, Daddy.”
Her voice broke.
“He took Mommy away.”
“Where?”
She pointed toward the photograph.
“To the house.”
“What house?”
May you like
She whispered the address.
It was ours.
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