Chapter 2: The Photograph
I stared at the photograph.
Brendan.
A stranger.
My father's warehouse.
The image had been taken at night.
There was a date printed in the corner.
November 18.
Seventeen years ago.
I remembered that night.
I remembered the flames.
I remembered the police.
I remembered my mother screaming that everything was gone.
And I remembered the official story.
Electrical failure.
Accidental fire.
My father had died three months earlier.
His company collapsed.
The warehouse burned.
The family lost everything.
At least, that's what I'd been told.
I looked at Arthur.
“Where did you get this?”
“From a hidden folder inside Brendan's private office.”
“Who is the woman?”
“We don't know yet.”
I looked again.
She had dark hair and was wearing a long black coat.
Brendan looked younger.
Maybe twenty-four.
Too young to be the man who later married me.
“Why would Brendan have this?”
Arthur didn't answer immediately.
“That isn't the only thing we found.”
He handed me another photograph.
Then another.
Then a file.
I opened it.
My hands began to shake.
Financial transfers.
Several accounts.
The earliest was dated seventeen years ago.
The beneficiary was a company I'd never heard of.
But the sender was familiar.
My father's company.
I stared.
“That company was bankrupt.”
“Officially,” Arthur said.
I looked up.
“Officially?”
Arthur nodded.
“Your father's company didn't collapse naturally.”
The room felt suddenly colder.
“Then what happened?”
“Someone stripped it from the inside.”
I read the documents again.
There were transfers made the night before the warehouse burned.
Millions of dollars.
Assets moved.
Accounts emptied.
Insurance policies altered.
Then the fire.
I slowly sat down.
“Who?”
Arthur's expression was grim.
“We're still tracing it.”
He handed me another document.
“This is where it gets complicated.”
I read the name.
BRENDAN HALE.
My chest tightened.
“No.”
His name appeared on three separate files.
Not as the owner.
As an intermediary.
“He was a college student,” I whispered.
Arthur nodded.
“And yet someone was paying him.”
“Who?”
Arthur pointed to a second name.
DIANE HALE.
My former mother-in-law.
I laughed once.
Not because anything was funny.
Because the truth was becoming so absurd that my mind couldn't process it.
“Diane?”
Arthur nodded.
“Your mother-in-law received money from a shell company connected to the warehouse fire.”
I closed my eyes.
Suddenly, old memories returned.
Diane telling me my father had been irresponsible.
Diane telling me that Brendan deserved better.
Diane telling me I should be grateful her son had married me.
She had always hated my family.
I never knew why.
Now I did.
Maybe hatred was easier than guilt.
“Does Brendan know?”
Arthur looked at me.
“We believe he does.”
My stomach tightened.
My baby moved.
I placed my hand over my belly.
Then I noticed something written on the back of the photograph.
Three words.
SHE KNOWS.
I turned toward Arthur.
“Who is she?”
“That,” he said, “is what we're trying to determine.”
The door suddenly opened.
One of the investigators stepped inside.
“Arthur.”
He whispered something.
Arthur's expression changed.
“What happened?”
“We found a second safe.”
“Where?”
“In the basement.”
My heart started pounding.
“What’s inside?”
“We haven't opened it yet.”
I stood.
“Let's go.”
Arthur hesitated.
“Cassidy, you don't have to.”
“Yes.”
I walked into the basement.
The investigators were standing near a concrete wall.
A metal safe had been hidden behind a false panel.
Arthur crouched.
He examined the lock.
“Old.”
“Can you open it?”
“Yes.”
He entered the combination found in the office notes.
The door clicked.
Everyone leaned forward.
Inside were stacks of files.
A passport.
Three encrypted drives.
And an old envelope.
Arthur pulled it out.
My name was written across the front.
Not Cassidy Vale.
My maiden name.
Cassidy Hart.
I froze.
“No one has called me that in seventeen years.”
Arthur looked at me.
“Maybe someone has been waiting.”
I took the envelope.
My hands trembled.
Inside was a letter.
The handwriting was unmistakable.
My father's.
Cassidy,
If you are reading this, then the people around you have already started to close in.
Trust no one.
Especially the people who tell you they love you.
I stopped reading.
My eyes blurred.
Arthur spoke quietly.
“There's more.”
I unfolded the rest.
Your mother's death was not an accident.
I stopped breathing.
My mother had died when I was nineteen.
A car accident.
That's what everyone said.
I kept reading.
I found proof that someone ordered the warehouse fire.
And the person behind it was someone you already know.
The letter ended with one sentence.
When the time comes, activate Protocol Seven.
I looked at Arthur.
“You knew.”
He shook his head.
“Not about this.”
I looked down at the letter.
“My father created Protocol Seven?”
“No.”
Arthur's face had gone pale.
“Your father created the company.”
He pointed to the final line.
“Your mother created Protocol Seven.”
My mind went blank.
My mother.
The woman everyone said had died in an accident.
The woman I had buried seventeen years ago.
The woman whose death certificate was sitting in a government archive.
I turned the letter over.
A single photograph fell out.
It showed my mother standing beside a man.
I recognized him immediately.
Arthur did too.
Because we had both seen him earlier that night.
The man in the photograph was Brendan's father.
May you like
And underneath the photo, my mother had written four words.
HE WAS NEVER YOUR FATHER.
