Chapter 3 - The Father I Buried Nine Years Ago
I had watched them lower my father's coffin into the ground.
I remembered the rain.
The priest's voice.
The way my mother held my hand so tightly that my fingers hurt.
And now a message claimed Dad was alive.
I stared at Antonio's phone.
"That's impossible."
He looked at me.
"I know."
"No, you don't understand. I went to his funeral."
Antonio nodded.
"Was it an open casket?"
The question struck me.
"No."
"Did you see his body?"
My stomach tightened.
"No. Mom said the accident was too severe."
Antonio leaned back.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then I whispered:
"What if she lied to me?"
He shook his head.
"We don't know that."
"But you think he could be alive?"
"I think someone wants us to believe he is."
The distinction mattered.
I was grateful Antonio made it.
He didn't promise answers he couldn't give.
He didn't tell me everything would be fine.
He simply watched me with an expression that looked almost like concern.
Then his phone rang.
One of his security men.
Antonio answered.
"Go ahead."
His jaw tightened.
"When?"
Another pause.
"Send it."
He ended the call.
"What happened?" I asked.
Antonio looked toward me.
"Someone entered your apartment while you were at work."
My heart stopped.
"What?"
"Your landlord found the door damaged. The police have been notified."
I stood so quickly my chair scraped the floor.
"My grandmother!"
Antonio frowned.
"What?"
"My grandmother lives with me. She's seventy-eight. She has trouble walking."
He immediately reached for his phone.
"What's her name?"
"Rose Bennett."
Antonio spoke to his security team.
Within minutes, someone confirmed that Grandma Rose had been visiting a neighbor when the break-in occurred.
She was safe.
I nearly collapsed with relief.
Antonio looked at me.
"Would you like me to arrange transportation so you can see her?"
I nodded.
"Please."
He stood.
Then stopped.
"Sophie, there's something I need to ask."
I looked up.
"Did your father ever leave you anything unusual?"
I frowned.
"Like what?"
"Documents. Keys. Old photographs."
I thought about the small wooden box beneath my bed.
Dad had given it to me shortly before he died.
He told me not to open it until I was ready to understand why our family had moved so often.
I'd been afraid to look.
For nine years.
Now I stared at Antonio.
"He left me a box."
His expression changed.
"Where?"
"In my apartment."
Antonio went still.
Before he could speak, my phone vibrated.
A message from Grandma Rose.
Sophie, don't come home.
My blood ran cold.
May you like
A second message appeared.
The men who took your father have found the box.
