Chapter 3 - THE MAN WHO WAS SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD
Nobody moved.
The man stood in the doorway wearing a dark coat.
His hair was almost completely gray now.
But I recognized him.
Franklin Mercer.
My father's closest business partner.
The man who had supposedly died in a car accident seven years earlier.
I remembered attending the memorial service.
I remembered my mother crying.
I remembered Penelope asking why bad things always happened to our family.
Yet Franklin was standing in our kitchen.
Alive.
Older.
Very much alive.
My hand instinctively moved toward the small of my back.
I wasn't carrying a weapon.
I didn't need one.
My training had taught me to stay calm when everyone else lost control.
“Who are you?” I asked.
Franklin smiled faintly.
“You know exactly who I am.”
“Then you know this is my house.”
His eyes moved toward Clara.
“Give me the notebook.”
“No.”
The man with the scar stepped forward.
I raised one hand.
“Stop.”
He stopped.
Something about my tone must have reminded him that I wasn't a frightened civilian.
Franklin studied me.
“You've been away too long, Alexander.”
“And you've been dead too long.”
He smiled.
“Your mother told you that story.”
My mother looked away.
That hurt more than I expected.
“Mom?”
She couldn't meet my eyes.
Franklin spoke.
“Your father owed me money.”
I frowned.
“My father died owing you?”
“No.”
He paused.
“He died owing someone else.”
I looked at the promissory notes.
Suddenly the pieces began shifting.
“You created the debt.”
“No.”
“You moved it onto Penelope.”
Franklin shook his head.
“Your mother did.”
My mother finally snapped.
“Stop.”
Franklin looked at her.
“You don't get to protect them anymore.”
I turned toward my mother.
“Tell me.”
She was trembling.
Six years of secrets seemed to collapse onto her shoulders at once.
“Your father had a company.”
“I know.”
“He wasn't just in construction.”
I frowned.
“He borrowed money from private investors.”
“For what?”
“To expand.”
“Did he lose it?”
“No.”
She looked at Franklin.
“He was making money.”
Franklin nodded.
“Your father discovered a way to move money through shell companies.”
My stomach tightened.
I didn't like where this was going.
“Was it illegal?”
“Yes.”
My mother whispered the word.
“But your father wanted out.”
Franklin's expression hardened.
“He didn't want out.”
“He did.”
“He wanted control.”
They argued for several seconds.
Then Franklin revealed something worse.
My father had been planning to expose the investors.
But before he could, he died.
The family was left with debts.
My mother panicked.
She signed agreements to keep the house.
She borrowed against future assets.
And eventually, she involved Penelope.
“But Clara?” I asked.
Franklin looked at me.
“Your wife discovered the arrangement.”
“How?”
“She found the original payment records.”
I turned toward Clara.
She nodded.
“Your father had hidden them inside an old sewing machine.”
I stared.
“You found them?”
“Yes.”
“And you copied them?”
“Yes.”
“Where are they?”
She looked toward the hallway.
“I don't have them anymore.”
My stomach dropped.
“Who took them?”
She looked at my mother.
My mother began crying.
“I did.”
I stared.
“You took them?”
“I was trying to protect you.”
“You were protecting me by letting Clara get beaten?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
She couldn't answer.
Franklin did.
“Because the originals prove your father wasn't the one responsible for the final debt.”
I looked at him.
“Who was?”
He nodded toward Penelope.
My sister looked terrified.
“What?”
Franklin said,
“Your father had a life insurance policy.”
I felt the room become colder.
“The policy was supposed to pay off the debt.”
“But it didn't.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because the beneficiary was changed.”
I looked at my mother.
She shook her head.
“I didn't change it.”
“Who did?”
Franklin smiled.
“That is the question.”
Then he placed an envelope on the table.
Inside was a photograph.
My father stood beside a younger version of my mother.
Behind them was a bank.
On the back was a handwritten date.
The day before my father died.
I turned the photograph over.
There was another line.
ASK ALEXANDER WHAT HE REMEMBERS ABOUT THE NIGHT I DIED.
I stared at it.
I remembered that night.
Or thought I did.
My mother had always told me I was away at college.
But something suddenly came back.
A phone call.
A voice.
My father telling me not to come home.
I had forgotten because I was nineteen.
Because grief had blurred everything.
But now I remembered one sentence.
“Don't trust your mother with the papers.”
I looked at her.
“Dad said that to me.”
My mother's face collapsed.
Franklin closed his eyes.
Penelope whispered,
“Mom?”
My mother finally sat down.
“I lied.”
Nobody spoke.
“I lied about the night your father died.”
My chest tightened.
“Why?”
She looked directly at me.
“Because your father wasn't killed by an accident.”
The room went silent.
“He was trying to leave.”
“Leave what?”
She whispered,
“Us.”
Then she reached into her pocket.
She pulled out an old brass key.
“Your father left this for you.”
I stared at it.
A number was engraved on the metal.
117.
Franklin's face changed.
“You still have it?”
My mother nodded.
Franklin whispered,
“That box was never supposed to survive.”
I took the key.
“What box?”
Nobody answered.
Then the man with the scar stepped closer.
“Storage facility.”
He pointed at the key.
“Unit 117.”
My mother grabbed my wrist.
“Alexander, don't go.”
I looked at her.
May you like
“Why?”
“Because that's where your father kept the truth.”
