Chapter 11 - The Man in the PhotographThe unknown number called.
I answered.
No one spoke.
Then I heard breathing.
"Who is this?"
A man's voice.
"Someone trying to keep you alive."
"Where's my father?"
"Closer than you think."
"Victor?"
"No."
"Then who?"
Silence.
"Look at the photograph again."
I looked at the image.
My father stood beside the lake.
Behind him was a building.
A red door.
A white lantern.
And a sign.
Hawthorne Recovery Center.
I searched it.
Closed eight years ago.
But a newer result appeared.
A private rehabilitation facility two towns away.
Same owner.
Same property.
I grabbed my coat.
I didn't tell Amanda.
I didn't tell Mom.
I left.
At the facility, an elderly receptionist looked at the photograph.
Then looked at me.
She nearly dropped her coffee.
"You came."
I froze.
"Who are you?"
"My name is Evelyn."
"You know my father?"
"I knew your father."
"Is he here?"
She looked around.
"No."
"Where is he?"
"He left yesterday."
My heart sank.
"Where?"
She handed me an envelope.
"Your father asked me to give this to you."
Inside was a note.
Claire, I am sorry. I believed disappearing would protect you. I was wrong.
I read on.
Your mother did not cause my death. Amanda did not cause my death. They caused other things. Things I cannot excuse. But the person who orchestrated everything is still free.
The final sentence was underlined.
He knows your children exist.
I almost dropped the paper.
"What does that mean?"
Evelyn pointed to another photograph.
It showed Lily.
Taken at school.
Last month.
Another showed Noah.
Walking into school.
Someone had been watching them.
Under the photographs was a note.
This is why I need you to finish what I started.
I called Robert.
He answered immediately.
"Where are you?"
"With Evelyn."
Silence.
Then:
"Get out."
"Why?"
"The man who sent you there knows you're coming."
I looked toward the window.
A black SUV had just pulled into the parking lot.
"Robert?"
"Claire, leave now."
Too late.
The facility doors locked automatically.
The receptionist's face turned white.
"There's a security system."
The lights went out.
My phone rang.
Dad.
I answered.
"Claire."
I nearly cried at the sound of his voice.
"Where are you?"
"I can't tell you."
"Why?"
"Because they can hear us."
"Who?"
"Everyone."
The black SUV stopped outside.
Dad spoke quickly.
"You were never supposed to come to the lodge."
"Why?"
"Because the lodge is a trap."
"For whom?"
"You."
I felt my blood freeze.
"Why?"
"Because you inherited something."
"What?"
"A list."
"What list?"
"The names of everyone involved."
I looked at the facility hallway.
"Where is it?"
"Your mother has it."
I stared.
"Mom?"
"She hid it eight years ago."
"Why would she hide it?"
"Because one of the names belongs to someone you trust."
"Who?"
Dad's voice broke.
Before he could answer, the call disconnected.
The facility lights returned.
The front doors unlocked.
The black SUV was gone.
But on the floor beside the entrance was a single envelope.
Inside was a photograph of my children's school.
A red circle surrounded both names.
May you like
And beneath it was a handwritten message.
Bring the list to Thanksgiving. Or the children pay the price.
