Chapter 5 - The Photo and The EnvelopeI couldn’t speak.
The city beyond the windows blurred.
I thought about my mother.
About the way she checked the locks every night.
About the way she never talked about my father.
About the old photograph album she kept at the bottom of her closet.
About the one picture she had once torn in half when she thought I wasn’t looking.
I remembered asking her who the little girl was.
She had told me:
“Nobody important.”
I had believed her.
Until now.
Mr. Graves walked to his desk and opened a locked drawer.
He removed a small envelope.
It was yellow with age.
There was writing on the front.
My name.
Not my mother’s.
Mine.
RUBY BENNETT
My hands began to shake.
“Why does that have my name on it?”
Mr. Graves stared at the envelope.
“Because it was written for you.”
“By who?”
He looked at me.
“Your mother.”
I reached for it.
He didn’t let go.
“Ruby, before I give you this, you need to understand something.”
“What?”
“If you open this letter, there is no going back.”
I stared at the envelope.
“What does it say?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“I was told never to open it.”
“Who told you?”
He looked toward the photograph.
“Your mother.”
I slowly pulled my hand away.
“Then why do you have it?”
His eyes filled with something that looked like regret.
“Because she gave it to me twelve years ago.”
A sound came from the hallway.
Three sharp knocks.
Everyone froze.
Mr. Graves immediately put the envelope back into the drawer.
“Who is it?”
No answer.
He moved toward the door.
“Who is it?”
A man’s voice came from the other side.
“Security, sir.”
Mr. Graves looked at Dr. Mercer.
“Which security?”
The doctor shook his head.
Mr. Graves reached beneath his desk and pressed a button.
Every light in the office went out.
I gasped.
“Stay down,” he whispered.
The city lights outside were suddenly the only illumination.
Then came another knock.
This time harder.
“Mr. Graves, open the door.”
He didn’t move.
I crouched beside the desk.
Then I heard something slide underneath the door.
A photograph.
It stopped inches from my hand.
I picked it up.
There were three people in it.
My mother.
A much younger Nathaniel Graves.
And a baby.
On the back, written in red ink, were six words:
SHE DIDN’T DIE BY ACCIDENT.
I looked up.
Mr. Graves was staring at the photograph.
His face had gone completely white.
Then his phone rang.
He answered without speaking.
A distorted voice came through the receiver.
I couldn’t hear every word.
But I heard enough.
“Your daughter is alive.”
Mr. Graves froze.
The voice continued.
“And she’s been living under your nose for eight years.”
The call ended.
Nobody moved.
I looked at Mr. Graves.
He looked at me.
And for the first time since I had entered his tower, I realized something terrifying.
The billionaire hadn’t locked the doors to keep someone from escaping.
He had locked them because he was afraid someone was coming in.
May you like
And whoever was coming…
already knew my name.
