Chapter 9 - The Missing Six YearsWe drove home before dawn.
The house was dark.
Too dark.
I entered first.
“Dad?”
No answer.
The photograph had been taken in our kitchen.
But there was no one there.
I searched every room.
Nothing.
Then I saw something on the dining table.
A single envelope.
My name on it.
Claire.
I opened it.
Inside was one page.
You finally opened the compass.
Now you know.
Your father.
I looked at Ethan.
“He left this for me.”
Ethan took the paper.
His face changed.
“What?”
“This handwriting isn't your father's.”
He was right.
I knew my father's handwriting.
This wasn't it.
It was someone imitating him.
“Then whoever sent it wants me to think he's involved.”
“Exactly.”
I sat down.
“Who benefits?”
Ethan's eyes moved to the microfilm.
“My father.”
He took out a projector from one of the boxes in the study.
We loaded the film.
Images appeared on the wall.
Bank statements.
Photographs.
Meetings.
Political figures.
Judges.
Executives.
Then a list.
PROJECT NORTHSTAR.
At the bottom:
Primary Identity Holder: Claire Bennett.
My stomach turned.
“Why me?”
Ethan rewound the film.
“There.”
A photograph appeared.
My mother was pregnant.
My father stood beside her.
And next to them was Ethan's father.
Beneath the photograph was a note.
The child will be the legal cover.
I felt sick.
“They planned to use me before I was born.”
Ethan stared at the screen.
“They knew you would inherit everything.”
“Inherit what?”
A new image appeared.
A property deed.
A large estate.
And beneath it:
NORTHSTAR TRUST.
The trust owned companies.
Hotels.
Construction firms.
Banks.
Private aircraft.
Thirty-two million was only one part of it.
The real amount was nearly nine hundred million dollars.
I stared.
My father had built an empire under my name.
Then the projector flickered.
A final image appeared.
My father.
Standing alive.
Beside him was a woman.
My mother.
I screamed.
“No.”
Ethan stared at the image.
“She was supposed to be dead.”
The photograph had been taken six months earlier.
My mother was older.
But unmistakable.
Alive.
My knees gave way.
“She's alive.”
Ethan caught me.
“Claire.”
I pushed him away.
“You knew?”
“No.”
“Did my father know?”
“Yes.”
“Then why let me mourn her?”
“I don't know.”
I looked at the screen again.
There was one line beneath the photograph.
Subject remains unaware of relocation.
My breathing stopped.
Relocation?
My mother hadn't been hiding.
She had been moved.
Kept somewhere.
For years.
Then a new message appeared on the projector.
IF YOU WANT YOUR MOTHER BACK, BRING ETHAN MILLER TO THE OLD RIVERHOUSE.
I looked at Ethan.
He looked at me.
Neither of us spoke.
Then his phone rang.
He answered.
A man's voice said:
“Hello, son.”
Ethan's face drained of color.
“Dad?”
May you like
The voice laughed.
“You finally found the girl.”
