Chapter 3 - The Second ScrapbookMom carried the package into the kitchen.

She placed it on the table.

Nobody moved.

Lucy stayed close to me.

Caroline remained in the doorway.

Mom slowly unfolded the scarf.

A second scrapbook appeared.

Identical to the first.

Same leather.

Same brass corners.

Same faded photograph of Anna and Lucy on the cover.

For a moment, I couldn't speak.

“I kept it hidden,” Mom said.

“Why?”

“Because Anna begged me.”

“Why didn't she tell me?”

“She thought someone was watching you.”

“Who?”

“I don't know.”

Caroline whispered, “You should have burned it.”

Mom turned.

“That's exactly what Anna was afraid you would say.”

Caroline looked away.

I opened the second scrapbook.

The first photographs were duplicates.

But there was something different.

Red marks.

Tiny circles around dates.

Arrows connecting people.

Numbers written in the margins.

Anna had turned the scrapbook into a map.

A map of a secret.

One page contained photographs of Lucy from different years.

Beside each photograph was a number.

Four years old.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

Eight.

The numbers didn't make sense.

Then I realized.

They matched deposits into Lucy's trust.

I turned another page.

Anna had written:

Money moved after every family event.

Another page:

Wedding. 40,000

Christmas. 25,000

Birthday. 18,000

I flipped faster.

Every important moment in Lucy's life had been followed by a withdrawal.

My throat tightened.

“Why would someone do this?”

Mom said quietly, “Because they knew nobody would notice.”

I turned another page.

A photograph fell out.

It showed Victor Grant standing outside a restaurant.

Beside him was a woman.

Caroline.

My wife took a sharp breath.

“That isn't what you think.”

“When was this?”

“After Anna died.”

“Date.”

Caroline looked at the photograph.

“Six months later.”

“What were you doing with him?”

“I was asking him about the trust.”

“You told me you hadn't spoken to him.”

“I told you I didn't work with him.”

“That's not what I asked.”

Caroline sat down.

“I was trying to find out who was moving the money.”

“Why secretly?”

“Because I thought Grant was involved.”

“You met him alone?”

“Yes.”

“More than once?”

She didn't answer.

That was enough.

I looked through the scrapbook again.

A note was tucked behind the photograph.

Caroline knows about the ledger.

My chest tightened.

“What ledger?”

Caroline's eyes widened.

“I don't know.”

Mom pointed at the page.

“Anna wrote it.”

“I know.”

“She wouldn't have written that without a reason.”

Caroline stood.

“She made mistakes.”

“She knew about the money.”

“She suspected.”

“She named you.”

Caroline's voice cracked.

“She was wrong.”

Lucy suddenly spoke.

“Daddy?”

We turned.

She was staring at another photograph.

An old photograph of Anna standing beside a hospital bed.

Lucy was a baby.

Someone had written a date in the corner.

Lucy touched it.

“I remember that night.”

I froze.

“You were a baby.”

“No.”

She shook her head.

“I was bigger.”

I crouched.

“What do you remember?”

She frowned.

“A man.”

“What man?”

“He was talking to Mommy.”

“When?”

“Before she went away.”

My heart stopped.

“Where?”

Lucy looked at Caroline.

Then she whispered.

“In the garage.”

Caroline stood so suddenly that her chair fell backward.

“No.”

Everyone turned toward her.

Lucy began to cry.

“That man said Mommy needed to give him the book.”

Caroline's face drained of color.

“What man?”

Lucy shook her head.

“I don't know.”

I put my hand on her shoulder.

“Did you see him?”

She nodded.

“Can you remember his face?”

“A little.”

I waited.

Then Lucy said something that made my blood run cold.

“He had the same ring as Aunt Caroline.”

Caroline stared at her hand.

She wore a silver ring.

A family gift.

But I had seen that ring before.

In the photograph.

On Victor Grant's hand.

I looked at Caroline.

“Why does Grant have your ring?”

She didn't answer.

Because she couldn't.

At that moment, my phone rang.

Unknown number.

I answered.

A man's voice said:

“Stop looking through Anna's scrapbook.”

I stood.

“Who is this?”

“Your wife is not the person you think she is.”

The call ended.

I stared at the screen.

Then another message arrived.

A photograph.

Of my house.

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Taken from across the street.

Taken tonight.