Chapter 3: The Locked Study
Mr. Bennett ended the call and immediately dialed another number.
I stood beside the sofa, unable to move.
“My house?”” I asked.
He turned toward me.
“Your grandfather's house.””
“Why would Diane destroy anything?””
He didn't answer.
Instead, he gathered the documents and placed them inside his briefcase.
“Maya, I need you to understand that you're not responsible for what the adults in your family have done.””
I nodded, although I didn't fully understand.
“Can we go to Grandpa's house?””
“Not alone.””
“Why?””
“Because I don't know what Diane intends to do.””
I stared at the brass key in his hand.
“Then we should go before she gets there.””
He studied my face.
For a moment, he looked like a man trying to decide how much truth a twelve-year-old could handle.
Finally, he nodded.
“I'll arrange for someone to accompany us.””
Twenty minutes later, we were sitting in his car.
Rain began tapping against the windshield as we drove through the familiar neighborhood.
Grandpa's house stood at the end of a quiet street lined with maple trees.
It was a large brick house with white shutters and a porch that always smelled faintly of cedar.
I had spent countless afternoons there.
Grandpa kept peppermint candies in a glass bowl by the front door. He had a ridiculous collection of fishing hats in the hallway closet. His kitchen clock was always seven minutes fast because he claimed it made people more productive.
I used to laugh at him.
Now I couldn't imagine walking through that door without hearing his voice.
Mr. Bennett parked beside the garage.
“Stay close to me.””
I nodded.
We climbed the porch steps.
The front door was locked.
Mr. Bennett inserted his key.
Nothing happened.
He tried again.
Still nothing.
Then he noticed the small piece of paper tucked beneath the welcome mat.
He picked it up.
His jaw tightened.
“What is it?”” I asked.
He turned the paper over.
Three words were written in black ink.
Stop looking, Bennett.
I felt cold.
“Who wrote that?””
“I don't know.””
He called the police before attempting to enter through the side door.
While we waited, I stared through the living room window.
Something was wrong.
The curtains were open.
Grandpa always closed them before leaving the house.
And the small wooden table beside the sofa had been knocked over.
A police officer arrived ten minutes later.
Mr. Bennett explained the situation.
The officer checked the property and found no one inside.
But the study was different.
Drawers had been pulled out.
Books were scattered across the carpet.
A framed photograph lay broken beside the desk.
It was a picture of my mother.
I rushed toward it.
“Mom!””
The officer gently stopped me.
“Careful, sweetheart.””
I crouched down.
The glass had shattered, but the photograph itself was intact.
My mother was smiling.
She had dark brown hair like mine and the same small dimple on her left cheek.
I hadn't looked at that photograph in years.
I picked it up carefully.
“Grandpa kept this here,” I whispered.
Mr. Bennett examined the desk.
“Someone was searching for something.””
I looked around.
“What?””
He opened the top drawer.
It was empty except for a small wooden box.
Inside lay a folded piece of paper.
Mr. Bennett unfolded it.
His expression changed.
“What does it say?”” I asked.
He handed it to me.
The handwriting wasn't Grandpa's.
It was Diane's.
You promised you would never tell her.
My stomach twisted.
“Tell me what?””
Mr. Bennett looked at the police officer.
“Officer, could you give us a moment?””
The officer stepped into the hallway but remained nearby.
Mr. Bennett sat at the desk.
“Your grandfather kept original copies of certain legal documents in this room. We need to find them.””
He examined the bookcase.
Then he noticed something unusual.
One shelf was slightly shorter than the others.
He pulled it forward.
Behind it was a narrow wooden compartment.
Inside sat a black metal lockbox.
I recognized it.
Grandpa had shown it to me once when I was eight.
He had called it his treasure chest.
I had asked whether it contained gold.
He laughed and said, “Something more valuable than gold.””
Now Mr. Bennett took out the brass key.
It slid into the lock.
Click.
The lid opened.
Inside were several folders, a small flash drive, and a yellow envelope with my name written across it.
My hands shook.
“Can I?””
He nodded.
I opened it.
A photograph slipped onto the desk.
It showed my mother holding a newborn baby.
Me.
Behind her stood Grandpa Harold.
He was smiling.
But there was someone else in the photograph.
A woman I didn't recognize.
She had one hand resting on my mother's shoulder.
On the back of the picture, Grandpa had written:
The three women who made this family worth fighting for.
I looked at Mr. Bennett.
“Who is she?””
He examined the photograph.
“Her name is Eleanor.””
“Is she family?””
He didn't answer immediately.
I opened the folder.
The first document was a birth certificate.
My name.
My mother's name.
And a section I had never seen before.
Under the heading for the second parent, there was a handwritten correction.
Mr. Bennett took the paper carefully.
“This is interesting.””
“What?””
“The original certificate lists someone different from the person recorded on the amended copy.””
“Different from who?””
He looked at me.
“Your father.””
I frowned.
“But Dad is my father.””
“That's what you've been told.””
I felt the room tilt.
“No. Grandpa always said Richard was my father.””
“Richard raised you, Maya. But your grandfather believed the official record had been altered.””
I looked at the photograph again.
My mother was holding me so carefully.
There was a hospital bracelet around her wrist.
And beside the photograph was a second document.
A letter addressed to Grandpa.
The handwriting was unfamiliar.
I unfolded it.
Harold, I know what happened to my daughter. I know why you allowed Richard to take the child. But I cannot keep pretending this was right.
You have one chance to tell Maya the truth before Diane makes sure she never finds it.
There was no signature.
Only a date.
Four years earlier.
I looked at Mr. Bennett.
“Who wrote this?””
He examined the paper.
“I'm not certain.””
I opened another folder.
Inside was a list of financial transfers.
Thousands of dollars had been sent to an account every month.
The recipient's name was hidden behind a black strip of ink.
But the dates were clear.
The payments had started eleven years ago.
The year I was born.
I stared at the numbers.
“Why was Grandpa sending money to someone?””
Mr. Bennett turned the page.
There was a second list.
This one contained the names of people who had received payments.
One name appeared again and again.
Diane Collins.
I looked up.
“She was taking Grandpa's money?””
“Not necessarily. These transactions require investigation.””
“But why are they here?””
Mr. Bennett closed the folder.
“Because Harold wanted us to find them.””
A noise came from the hallway.
Footsteps.
Then a familiar voice.
“Richard? Are you in there?””
My father.
He entered the study wearing a gray coat, his hair wet from the rain.
For eleven weeks, I had imagined what I would say if he finally came to see me.
I had planned to ask why he stopped calling.
Why he missed my school play.
Why he didn't come when Grandpa went into the hospital.
But when I saw him, all I could say was:
“Dad?””
He looked at me.
His face tightened.
Then his eyes fell on the open lockbox.
“Close that.””
I stepped backward.
“Why?””
“Because those documents don't belong to you.””
Mr. Bennett stood.
“Actually, Richard, they were left in Maya's care.””
My father laughed without humor.
“You're making a serious mistake.””
He reached for the folders.
Mr. Bennett moved them away.
“Don't touch those.””
My father turned toward me.
“Maya, come here.””
I didn't move.
He looked almost offended.
“I'm your father.””
I held the photograph of my mother against my chest.
“Then why didn't you come to Grandpa's funeral?””
His expression changed.
For the first time, he looked ashamed.
But it lasted only a second.
“Because I was handling something important.””
“What could be more important?””
He glanced at Mr. Bennett.
Then he lowered his voice.
“Your grandfather made promises he had no right to make.””
I swallowed.
“What promises?””
My father stared at me.
Then he said something I would remember for the rest of my life.
“Your grandfather wasn't protecting you from Diane, Maya.””
May you like
He pointed toward the photograph of my mother.
“He was protecting you from the truth about me.””
