Chapter 2 - The Letter From a Dead ManNobody spoke.
The Atlantic outside the windows had turned almost black, reflecting the restaurant lights like broken pieces of glass.
My father held the letter in both hands.
“Where did you get this?”
The waitress looked terrified.
“A man left it with the host stand.”
“What man?”
“I don't know, sir.”
“What did he look like?”
“Older.”
My father stepped closer.
“Describe him.”
“Gray hair. Tall. Navy coat.”
My father froze.
Nathan finally looked up.
“Dad?”
My father turned sharply.
“Sit down.”
Nathan obeyed.
He always did.
I looked at the letter again.
The handwriting was unmistakable.
My grandfather had written birthday cards in the same narrow, slanted script.
But there was something strange.
The ink looked fresh.
“You said Grandpa was dead.”
“He is dead,” my father snapped.
“Then how did he write this?”
My father's eyes narrowed.
“He didn't.”
Quinn picked up the letter.
My father tried to stop him.
Quinn moved his hand away.
The Colonel read silently.
Then he looked at me.
“Your grandfather's handwriting.”
I nodded.
“It is.”
My father laughed once.
A dry, empty sound.
“This is a forgery.”
“What does it say?” Nathan asked.
My father glared at him.
“It doesn't matter.”
“It must matter.”
Nathan's voice was shaking.
My father stood.
“I said it doesn't matter.”
Quinn reached for the letter again.
This time my father didn't stop him.
Quinn read it aloud.
“Martin,
If they ever bring the Mercer name to the Ocean House on your birthday, understand that I am no longer asking you to confess.
I am asking you to return what you stole.
The account number is still where I left it.
You have forty-eight hours.
After that, the evidence goes public.
E.M.”
Silence.
My mother closed her eyes.
Nathan whispered, “What account?”
My father folded the paper.
“Enough.”
I stared at him.
“You stole something from Grandpa?”
He looked at me like I had committed a crime by asking.
“Your grandfather was sick.”
“That doesn't answer me.”
“He was old.”
“That doesn't answer me either.”
His face hardened.
“He made mistakes.”
Quinn placed the letter on the table.
“Did he?”
My father looked at him.
“You're overstepping.”
“I haven't started yet.”
Something passed between them.
I realized then that Quinn wasn't surprised.
He knew.
Maybe not everything.
But enough.
My mother suddenly stood.
“Martin, we should go home.”
He grabbed her elbow.
“We are going home.”
I stepped forward.
“Mom stays with me.”
My father looked at me.
“You've become very brave.”
“No.”
I held his stare.
“I've become tired.”
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then he smiled.
That smile had always terrified me.
It meant he was planning something.
“Fine,” he said.
He released my mother.
“Enjoy your dinner.”
He turned toward the exit.
Quinn followed.
I touched Quinn's sleeve.
“Don't.”
He stopped.
My father glanced back.
Quinn lowered his voice.
“I'm not leaving with him.”
“What do you mean?”
“I'm staying here.”
My father heard him.
“You think you're protecting her?”
Quinn looked at him.
“No.”
He nodded toward me.
“She's already protecting herself.”
My father left.
The door shut behind him.
The restaurant slowly returned to life.
But our table felt colder.
My mother sat down.
Her hands were trembling.
“Tell me the truth.”
She stared at me.
“Please.”
She looked at Nathan.
Then Quinn.
Then me.
“I don't know what your father has done.”
It was such an obvious lie that it almost hurt.
“Mom.”
She looked at me.
There were tears in her eyes.
“When you were ten,” she whispered, “your grandfather came to my room at two in the morning.”
I said nothing.
“He told me to take the children and leave.”
Nathan's face changed.
“Why?”
“He said Martin had crossed a line.”
“What line?”
“I don't know.”
“You're lying.”
My mother flinched.
“I don't know everything.”
Quinn leaned forward.
“What did Edward Mercer give you?”
My mother looked frightened.
Then she reached inside her cardigan.
She pulled out a tiny brass key.
I stared at it.
“What's that?”
“Your grandfather gave it to me.”
“What does it open?”
“I don't know.”
Quinn turned it over.
There was a number stamped into the metal.
317.
He looked at me.
“Does that mean anything?”
My mind raced.
Ocean House.
Room numbers.
Storage rooms.
Old offices.
Then I remembered something.
My grandfather's library at home.
There had always been a small locked cabinet beneath the stairs.
My father never let us touch it.
I stood.
“317 isn't a room here.”
Quinn looked at the key.
“No.”
He turned it over.
On the other side, almost invisible beneath the scratches, were three letters.
B.S.M.
I stared at them.
“What is BSM?”
Quinn's jaw tightened.
“Bank Security Module.”
I looked at him.
“How do you know that?”
He didn't answer.
Then my phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
One message.
DON'T GO HOME.
A second message appeared.
YOUR FATHER IS WAITING FOR YOU.
May you like
And then a third.
HE KNOWS WHAT YOUR MOTHER TOLD YOU.
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