Chapter 3. The Room That Carried My Name

“Your mother.”

The words hung between us as I struggled to understand what Adrian had just told me. For sixteen years, I had lived with a simple version of my father's death: an accident, a wet road, and a tragedy that had torn our family apart. Now my husband stood in front of me, telling me that Victoria Hart had been the last person with Lucas before he died, and he didn't look like a man who was willing to take back his words.

“How do you know she was with him?” I finally asked.

Adrian didn't answer immediately. He ran a hand through his hair before walking toward the hallway window, as though he needed a few seconds to decide how much he was willing to tell me.

“Because your father called me that night.”

My heart lurched.

“He called you?”

“Yes.”

“And what did he say?”

Adrian lowered his gaze.

“That if anything happened to him, you were never to return to the lake house.”

The same house my mother had mentioned only minutes earlier.

The same house I didn't remember ever visiting.

“What was in that house?”

“I don't know.”

“I don't believe you.”

Adrian looked at me again.

“You can believe me or not, Evelyn, but I'm not going to make up an answer just to give you something that will calm your fear.”

His tone wasn't defensive. That bothered me more, because a part of me was beginning to suspect that this was exactly why my father had trusted him. Adrian didn't seem interested in making me feel better; he seemed determined to make sure that when I finally learned the truth, I would be able to handle it.

“My mother said we never had a lake house.”

“I know.”

“How could you know that?”

“Because your father took me there.”

I stared at him.

“When?”

“The summer you turned eight.”

A strange pressure formed behind my eyes.

For a moment, I saw water beneath a blue sky, a small red boat floating near a dock, and a man's hand holding mine. The image disappeared before I could grasp it.

I leaned against the wall.

Adrian immediately moved toward me, but I raised a hand to stop him.

“I'm fine.”

“You're not.”

“It was just a memory.”

“What did you see?”

I closed my eyes, trying to return to that moment.

“Water. A red boat. I think I was with my father.”

Adrian remained silent.

“And you?” I asked.

“I was there too.”

My eyes snapped open.

“Then tell me what happened.”

His expression hardened.

“Not tonight.”

I felt my patience snap.

“When, then? Tomorrow? Next week? After someone else dies?”

Adrian took my words without responding. Finally, he pulled a small key from his trouser pocket and held it between his fingers.

“There is something you need to see.”

I looked at the key.

“The room?”

He nodded.

“But once you go inside, you won't be able to pretend this family is what you thought it was.”

I didn't know whether that was a warning or a promise.

Perhaps both.

Adrian walked toward the end of the hallway, and I followed him.

The door with my name on it looked different now. It no longer seemed like merely a locked door. It felt like a part of my life someone had deliberately hidden from me.

When Adrian inserted the key into the lock, I felt my heart begin to pound.

The mechanism gave way with a click.

Adrian opened the door.

I expected to find documents, money, or some evidence connected to my father.

I didn't expect to find my childhood.

The walls were covered with photographs.

I moved closer slowly.

One picture showed my father teaching me how to ride a bicycle. Another showed me asleep on a sofa while he worked at a nearby table. There were photographs of my birthdays, my first days at school, and even moments I barely remembered.

“Who took all these photographs?” I asked.

“Your father.”

“And why are they here?”

Adrian didn't answer.

I continued walking until I saw a photograph that made me stop.

It was my eighth birthday.

I recognized the garden, the table covered with sweets, and the yellow dress I had been wearing that afternoon.

My father stood behind me.

Victoria was beside him.

And next to them was a teenager.

Adrian.

I touched the photograph with my fingertips.

“I knew you.”

“Yes.”

“Why don't I remember knowing you?”

His gaze darkened.

“Because something happened after that summer.”

“What?”

“You fell into the lake.”

I looked at him.

“My mother always said I slipped from the dock.”

“That isn't what happened.”

Fear slowly returned.

“What happened, then?”

Adrian moved closer to the photograph.

“Someone pushed you.”

I felt the air stop in my lungs.

“Who?”

“We never found out.”

“Never?”

“Your father suspected someone, but he died before he could prove it.”

“Then why don't I remember anything?”

Adrian stared at the photograph for several seconds before answering.

“Because after the accident, your mother made a decision.”

“What decision?”

“She took you away from the lake and started convincing you that you had never been there.”

My stomach twisted.

“That's impossible.”

“Is it?”

I didn't know how to answer.

Adrian walked toward a desk positioned beside the window. On it sat a small wooden box, carefully closed.

“Your father asked me to keep this.”

The box carried my name.

Evelyn Hart.

My fingers trembled as I picked it up.

“What is inside?”

“Something I could never destroy.”

“Why would you have to destroy it?”

Adrian held my gaze.

“Because your mother asked me to.”

The world seemed to tilt beneath my feet.

“My mother asked you to destroy something belonging to my father?”

“Yes.”

“What was it?”

“I didn't know when she asked me.”

I slowly opened the box.

Inside was a folded photograph and a small, old-fashioned recording device.

I picked up the photograph first.

My father was sitting at a desk, writing something. Victoria stood behind him, but her face wasn't turned toward the camera.

She was looking at someone.

Someone outside the frame.

I turned the photograph over.

There was a date written on the back.

August 14.

My breathing became uneven.

“That is the day my father died.”

Adrian shook his head.

“No.”

I looked at him.

“What do you mean?”

“That is the day before his official date of death.”

A chill ran through me.

“My mother always said he died on the fifteenth.”

“I know.”

“Then why is there a photograph from the fourteenth?”

Adrian didn't answer.

The recording device was still inside the box.

I picked it up.

“Does it work?”

“Yes.”

“Then I want to hear it.”

Adrian hesitated.

“Evelyn…”

“I want to hear it.”

He placed the recorder on the desk and pressed the button.

At first, there was only static.

Then I heard breathing.

My heart began to race.

And then I recognized the voice.

The voice I hadn't heard in sixteen years.

“Evelyn.”

My eyes filled with tears.

It was my father.

“If you're hearing this, it means Adrian kept his promise.”

I covered my mouth with one hand.

Adrian remained completely still.

Lucas's voice continued.

“I don't know how much time I have, but there is something you need to know. Your mother isn't the person you think she is.”

A pause.

Then my father said something that made me immediately look at Adrian.

“And, Evelyn, if you ever wonder why Adrian entered our lives, remember this: I was the one who asked him to.”

The recording stopped.

I stared at the recorder's tiny screen.

“Is that all?”

Adrian picked up the device.

“No.”

“What do you mean?”

“This recording should be longer.”

He pressed the button again.

Nothing.

The tape had been cut.

Someone had removed the most important part.

Then we heard a noise behind us.

We both turned.

The door was still open.

But there was no one in the hallway.

Adrian stepped out first.

“Stay here.”

This time, I didn't argue.

He walked several steps forward and looked toward the stairs.

I lowered my gaze to the photograph I was still holding.

That's when I noticed something I hadn't seen before.

In the bottom corner was a small note.

Three words written in my father's handwriting.

She knows everything.

A shiver ran through me.

But beneath those words was another sentence, written in different ink.

A sentence that hadn't been there when we opened the box.

And she knows you'll remember.

I lifted my gaze.

Adrian was still in the hallway, his back to me.

“Adrian…”

He turned.

I showed him the photograph.

His expression changed immediately.

“Who wrote that?”

“I don't know.”

Adrian crossed the room quickly and took the photograph.

He studied it for several seconds.

Then he looked toward the door.

“Evelyn, get out of this room.”

“Why?”

He didn't answer.

Because at that moment, we heard the sound of a door closing somewhere inside the mansion.

Adrian pulled out his phone.

“Reed.”

A voice answered on the other end.

Adrian listened for several seconds, and then all the color drained from his face.

“What happened?” I asked.

He looked at me.

“Someone is inside the house.”

Before I could react, the lights went out.

And from the floor below came a woman's voice.

A voice I knew far too well.

“Evelyn…”

It was my mother.

“Don't trust Adrian.”