Chapter 3 - THE MAN IN THE PHOTOGRAPHWe escaped through a tunnel beneath the house.
I didn't know the tunnel existed.
I didn't know my mother knew how to open it.
I didn't know she had been preparing for this night for years.
But apparently, my mother had secrets layered beneath secrets.
We emerged three houses away.
An old storage building.
Ethan forced open the door.
We stood in the cold night air.
Nobody spoke.
Finally I said, “Who's my father?”
Mother looked exhausted.
“His name is Jonathan Vale.”
“You said he died.”
“He was supposed to.”
“What does that mean?”
She looked at Ethan.
He nodded.
Mother sat on an old wooden crate.
“Jonathan discovered Diane was stealing from the company.”
I stared.
“Diane?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Accounts. Offshore companies. Property transfers. Fake charities.”
Ethan frowned.
“And Ryan?”
Mother hesitated.
“Ryan knew.”
My stomach turned.
“He knew what?”
“That Diane was using him to protect herself.”
I shook my head.
“That's impossible.”
Mother looked at me.
“Is it?”
Memories flooded back.
Ryan had always asked strange questions.
About my mother's work.
About old family photographs.
About whether I had spoken to my father.
About whether my mother had kept documents.
I had thought he was curious.
Now I wondered whether he had been investigating me.
“How did Jonathan disappear?”
Mother looked down.
“Twenty-seven years ago, Jonathan decided to expose Diane.”
“What happened?”
“He vanished.”
“And you?”
“I took you and ran.”
“But why did you work for Diane?”
Mother smiled bitterly.
“Because I needed to stay close enough to know whether she had found you.”
My chest tightened.
“So all these years…”
“I watched.”
“For what?”
“For the day she came looking.”
Ethan walked over.
“Then tonight wasn't random.”
“No.”
“Someone knew about the inheritance.”
Mother nodded.
“The will was reopened.”
I looked at her.
“When?”
“Three weeks ago.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because I needed proof.”
“Proof of what?”
“That Jonathan is alive.”
The room went silent.
Ethan stared.
“Alive?”
Mother reached into the box.
She pulled out another photograph.
It showed an older man standing outside a hospital.
The photograph was dated six months earlier.
I recognized his face.
Jonathan Vale.
Older.
Thinner.
But unmistakable.
My father.
I touched the photograph.
“Where is he?”
Mother whispered.
“Somewhere in California.”
“Where?”
She looked at me.
“He is waiting for you.”
I nearly laughed.
After twenty-seven years?
“Why?”
“Because he cannot come to you.”
“Why not?”
“Because someone is watching him.”
Ethan turned toward the window.
“Who?”
Mother didn't answer.
A car passed outside.
Black.
Slow.
Then it stopped.
Our entire family froze.
The headlights stayed on.
A moment later, a man stepped out.
He walked toward the building.
My mother grabbed the box.
“Back door.”
We ran.
Ethan pushed open the rear exit.
We crossed the alley.
The footsteps followed.
“Faster!”
We reached an old pickup truck.
Ethan got behind the wheel.
The engine started.
We sped away.
But the black car followed.
I looked back.
The driver never turned on the headlights.
My mother stared at the car.
“I know that car.”
“Whose?”
Her voice trembled.
“Your father's.”
I turned.
“What?”
She nodded.
“Jonathan.”
The black car followed us for three miles.
Then disappeared.
We drove to a motel.
Mother locked the curtains.
Ethan checked every window.
I sat on the bed, staring at Jonathan's photograph.
“Why would my father watch us?”
Mother didn't answer.
I looked up.
“Mom.”
She sat beside me.
“There is another truth.”
“What?”
“Jonathan didn't leave us.”
“Then why did he disappear?”
“Because I asked him to.”
I stared.
“Why?”
She lowered her voice.
“Because Diane threatened to kill you.”
My heart stopped.
“How old was I?”
“Two.”
She cried silently.
“I believed distance would keep you alive.”
“And did it?”
Mother looked toward the curtains.
“No.”
“What do you mean?”
She opened the box again.
Inside was a letter.
It was addressed to me.
I unfolded it.
The handwriting was elegant.
Familiar somehow.
The first line read:
Claire,
If you're reading this, Diane has finally made her move.
Do not trust Ryan.
Do not trust your father.
And above all, do not trust your mother.
I read the sentence three times.
Then I looked up.
Mother was crying.
I whispered, “Why does it say not to trust you?”
She didn't answer.
Ethan read the letter.
His expression changed.
“What happened thirty years ago, Mom?”
May you like
She whispered:
“I killed someone.”
Related Stories
