Chapter 3: The Man in the Photograph
I didn't sleep.
By midnight, every light in the house was on.
Rain ticked against the windows.
The 2001 notebook sat open on the kitchen table.
I had spread the other journals around it.
2002.
2003.
2004.
Twenty-four books.
Twenty-four years.
Grandpa had documented almost everything.
Not feelings.
Facts.
Dates.
Names.
Payments.
Phone calls.
Threats.
He wrote about my first day of kindergarten.
My broken wrist.
My eighth birthday.
My first job.
And every Sunday call to my mother.
But whenever he mentioned my parents, his handwriting became harder.
More compressed.
More urgent.
At 2:13 a.m., I found the first reference to the man in the photograph.
*Name: Daniel Mercer.*
Underneath:
*Private investigator.*
Then:
*Jonathan hired him to locate assets. Instead, Daniel discovered where the money came from.*
I turned the page.
There was a bank account number.
Then another.
Then a sentence underlined twice.
*Arthur's property was purchased with money stolen from a company that Jonathan did not own.*
I sat back.
My father had money.
Enough to rent a moving truck.
Enough to dress like he belonged in this house.
But Grandpa's note suggested something bigger.
I turned another page.
A knock sounded at the front door.
I nearly dropped the notebook.
Three slow knocks.
I didn't move.
Then a voice.
“Lucas?””
A man's voice.
Older.
Calm.
“I'm not here to hurt you.””
I walked toward the door but didn't open it.
“Who are you?””
“My name is Daniel Mercer.””
My stomach tightened.
I looked through the peephole.
The man from the photograph stood on my porch.
Older now.
Gray-haired.
Wearing a dark raincoat.
I unlocked the chain but kept the door barely open.
“How did you know I was here?””
“Arthur called me two weeks before he died.””
“What did he say?””
Daniel looked at the brass key in my hand.
“He said you would find it.””
“Find what?””
“The reason your parents abandoned you.””
I opened the door.
He stepped inside.
Water dripped from his coat onto the floor.
“You need to leave,” I said.
“No.””
His answer was immediate.
“That is exactly what Arthur told me not to do.””
I stared at him.
“He knew you were coming?””
“He knew your parents were coming.””
Daniel pulled a small envelope from his pocket.
Arthur's handwriting was on it.
*For Lucas. Give only after they arrive.*
I opened it.
Inside was a single photograph.
A hospital.
A woman in labor.
My mother.
Beside the bed stood my father.
And Arthur.
A baby lay in a clear bassinet.
I turned the picture over.
*June 14, 2001.*
My birth date.
But something was wrong.
My mother looked frightened.
My father looked furious.
Arthur looked devastated.
I looked at Daniel.
“What happened?””
Daniel sat down.
“Your father had another reason for leaving you.””
I waited.
“He thought you weren't his.””
The room seemed to shrink.
“What?””
Daniel leaned forward.
“Your mother had been seeing someone.””
“Who?””
He opened his mouth.
Then stopped.
His phone rang.
Daniel looked at the screen.
His face changed.
He stood.
“We need to move.””
“Why?””
“Because they found me.””
Outside, headlights swept across the rain.
An SUV stopped at the curb.
Then another.
Daniel grabbed his coat.
“Who are they?””
“No time.””
The front door burst open.
A man stepped inside.
“Police!””
Daniel exhaled in relief.
Then the officer removed his cap.
It wasn't the police.
Daniel whispered, “Run.””
The man behind the fake badge raised his weapon.
The shot shattered the lamp beside my head.
Glass exploded across the kitchen.
I ducked.
Daniel tackled the intruder.
Another man crashed through the back door.
I grabbed the nearest object—a heavy wrench from Grandpa's tool bench—and swung.
The man dropped.
Daniel kicked the gun away.
“Lucas!””
I grabbed the 2001 notebook.
We ran through the garage.
Rain hammered the metal roof.
Daniel started a dusty pickup.
“Get in!””
I jumped into the passenger seat.
As we sped away, I looked back.
My house disappeared behind the trees.
Daniel gripped the wheel.
“You have to understand something.””
“What?””
“The people chasing us don't care about the house.””
“Then what do they want?””
He looked at me.
“They want the notebooks.””
“Why?””
“Because your grandfather didn't just document what your parents did.””
May you like
He swallowed.
“He documented where they hid the money.””
