Chapter 8: What My Mother Knew
We didn't sleep at home that night.
Officer Grant arranged for us to stay with Ivy.
She gave Joel her guest room and insisted I take the couch.
I barely closed my eyes.
At 2:13 in the morning, I was still staring at my mother's handwriting.
The photograph lay on the coffee table.
My mother.
The man.
Three weeks ago.
Impossible.
She had been dead for eight years.
At 6:40, Ivy came downstairs.
“You're still awake.””
“Yes.””
She poured coffee.
“You need to tell me everything.””
“I don't even know everything.””
“Then start with what you do know.””
I told her about the letter.
About Daniel.
About the house.
About the red truck.
When I finished, Ivy was silent.
Then she said something I wasn't prepared for.
“I remember Daniel.””
I looked at her.
“What?””
“Not personally. My father knew him.””
I sat up.
“Why didn't you tell me?””
“Because I didn't know it was the same Daniel.””
“How?””
She went upstairs.
When she returned, she carried an old shoebox.
“My dad died last year. I found this in his garage.””
She opened it.
Inside were newspaper clippings.
Photographs.
Receipts.
And one document with my name on it.
I picked it up.
It was a property transfer.
The house had belonged to my grandfather.
Then my father.
Then, according to the document, it had been sold to a company called Northbridge Holdings.
I frowned.
“I've never heard of this.””
Ivy pointed to the signature.
“That isn't your father's signature.””
“How do you know?””
“My dad was a notary.””
I stared at her.
She handed me another page.
“This one is.””
My father's signature.
Real.
And underneath it, a handwritten note:
*Transfer rejected. Beneficiary remains Mara Bennett.*
I read it twice.
“What does beneficiary mean?””
Ivy looked at me.
“It means the house was supposed to become yours.””
I felt dizzy.
“So someone changed it.””
“Apparently.””
I looked through the photographs.
There was my father.
My mother.
A younger Daniel.
And the man from the red truck.
I turned the photograph over.
A name was written on the back.
*Elliot Vance.*
I searched the name on my phone.
The results made my hands shake.
Elliot Vance was a real-estate developer.
He owned Northbridge Holdings.
And according to an article from eighteen years ago, he had been my father's business partner.
I whispered, “That's him.””
Ivy nodded.
“Who?””
“The man in the truck.””
Before I could say anything else, Joel came downstairs.
He looked exhausted.
“Mom.””
I turned.
“I know that name.””
“Elliot?””
Joel nodded.
“He told me his name.””
“When?””
“The first time I saw him.””
“Why didn't you tell me?””
“He said you wouldn't believe me.””
I crouched.
“What exactly did he say?””
Joel swallowed.
“He said Grandpa owed him.””
“Your grandfather?””
“He said your dad took something from him.””
I looked at Ivy.
“What?””
Joel shook his head.
“I don't know.””
I hugged him.
Then his eyes moved toward the shoebox.
“What's that?””
I showed him the photograph.
He pointed immediately.
“That's him.””
Elliot.
My father's former partner.
The man who had somehow known about my son.
The man whose name appeared in documents connected to my childhood.
Then Ivy's phone rang.
She answered.
“Hello?””
Her face changed.
She put the phone on speaker.
It was Officer Grant.
“I've got something you need to hear.””
“What?””
“We pulled traffic-camera footage from Tuesday.””
My heart pounded.
“Did you find the truck?””
“Yes.””
“Can you identify Elliot Vance?””
“Not yet.””
There was a pause.
“There's something else.””
“What?””
“The truck wasn't following Joel.””
I frowned.
“Then what was it doing?””
“It was parked outside your house before Joel even left school.””
I felt cold.
“How long?””
“Three hours.””
I looked at the photograph.
Three weeks ago.
My mother and Elliot.
Then I looked at the letter.
Someone had known I would receive it.
Someone had known Joel would find the photograph.
Someone had been watching my house for hours before my son ever stepped onto the sidewalk.
Officer Grant spoke again.
“There's one more thing.””
“What?””
“The license plate is registered to Elliot Vance.””
My breath caught.
“Where is he now?””
“We don't know.””
“Can you find him?””
“I'm working on it.””
I stood.
“I want to know why he knows my son.””
Officer Grant's voice became quieter.
“So do I.””
The call ended.
I looked at Joel.
He was staring toward the window.
“What?””
He pointed outside.
A white envelope had been slipped beneath the front door.
I opened it.
Inside was a single photograph.
It showed me as a child.
Standing beside my mother.
Behind us was my grandfather's house.
And written across the bottom in red ink were six words:
*ASK YOUR MOTHER WHAT SHE DID.*
I stared at it.
Then I noticed something else.
A date.
The day my father supposedly died.
May you like
And beneath it, in smaller handwriting:
*He didn't die that night.*
