Chapter 17
I woke Harold before sunrise.
He read the message once and went very still.
“That drawing was in the living room.”
“I know.”
“After the brick?”
“Yes.”
His face hardened.
“Then whoever sent this was inside the house.”
The thought made my skin crawl.
I looked toward the couch where Ethan slept under a blanket.
Someone had been close enough to take his drawing.
Close enough to hurt him.
Close enough to prove they could.
Harold called Detective Morales.
Within an hour, his house was full of officers again.
They checked doors.
Windows.
The basement.
The attic.
The security system.
Nothing obvious.
No forced entry.
No broken locks except the shattered window.
Then Mike remembered something.
During the chaos, a firefighter had come back inside to check the smoke alarms because of “protocol.”
But the fire had not been at Harold’s house.
There had been no reason.
Harold’s cameras caught him.
A man in a firefighter jacket.
Helmet low.
Face turned away.
He entered through the back door while everyone faced the broken window.
He stayed inside for forty-two seconds.
Then left with something tucked under his coat.
The drawing.
Detective Morales froze the footage.
“That’s not one of ours.”
The real fire department confirmed it.
No firefighter had entered Harold’s home after the brick.
Someone had worn a stolen jacket.
Someone trained enough to move through panic unnoticed.
My father’s warning suddenly felt much too late.
Ethan woke while police were still there.
He saw the officers and curled into himself.
“Did I do something wrong?”
I dropped beside him.
“No. Never.”
“Then why are police always where I am?”
That question hurt.
Because I had no answer that would make him feel like a normal child.
Harold answered before I could.
“Because some adults are very bad at solving problems without making a mess.”
Ethan blinked.
Then nodded like that made sense.
Maybe it did.
We moved again.
Harold insisted we take the condo downtown.
This time, security was not optional.
Detective Morales placed patrol nearby.
My father was moved to a secure federal location.
Sarah was told to stay away from public contact.
Richard, from prison, was questioned again.
He claimed Vincent mentioned “Blackwood money” several times but never explained.
Sarah gave investigators something more useful.
During Vincent’s threats, he had asked her if Ethan ever talked about “the old man’s key.”
Ethan.
My son.
A child.
The old man’s key.
I had no idea what it meant.
Neither did Ethan.
At least, I thought he didn’t.
That evening in the condo, he sat on the floor with his stuffed bear and suddenly asked, “Dad, what’s a key that isn’t a key?”
I froze.
“What do you mean?”
“Vincent asked me that once.”
My throat tightened.
“When?”
“At the warehouse. Before you came.”
I sat beside him slowly.
“What did he say?”
Ethan hugged the bear.
“He said, ‘Your dad’s blood knows where the key is.’ I told him blood can’t know things.”
I forced myself to stay calm.
“That was a good answer.”
“He got mad.”
“What else did he say?”
Ethan thought hard.
“He said Grandpa Thomas stole what belonged to Blackwood.”
I closed my eyes.
Grandpa Thomas.
My father.
A stranger and a ghost.
Now somehow a target painted on my child.
The next morning, Detective Morales brought my father to a secured interview room.
I went alone.
Harold stayed with Ethan.
My father looked tired when I walked in.
“Is he okay?” he asked.
“Ethan is alive. That’s the best answer I can give.”
He nodded painfully.
I sat across from him.
“What is the old man’s key?”
His face changed.
He knew.
Of course he knew.
“Daniel—”
“No. Answer.”
He folded his hands.
“Arthur Blackwood kept an encrypted ledger. Names, payments, crimes. I copied it before I ran.”
“Where is it?”
“I don’t know anymore.”
I stared.
“You don’t know?”
“I hid it before witness protection. I built clues only I could follow.”
“Then follow them.”
He looked at me with haunted eyes.
“The first clue is with you.”
My stomach dropped.
“No, it isn’t.”
“Yes,” he whispered. “It is.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out an old photograph.
Me as a child.
Maybe five.
Standing beside him at a park.
On the back, in his handwriting, were numbers.
May you like
I had seen those numbers before.
They were carved into the back of the wooden toy train Ethan now slept with every night.
