Chapter 4. My Father's Last Gift

“The last thing your father left for you.”

Adrian's words hung between us as I stared at him, trying to understand how there could be something my father had specifically left for me that had remained hidden for sixteen years.

My father had died when I was eight years old. All that time, I had learned to live with the idea that his absence was a wound that would never completely heal. I kept a few photographs, his old watches, a wooden box filled with birthday letters, and the memories my mother had chosen to tell me, but I had never imagined there was something more.

Much less something Adrian had kept for me.

“What is it?” I asked.

Adrian didn't answer immediately. His gaze remained on me, as though he were trying to decide how much he could say without breaking something that was already too fragile.

“There are things you need to know before you open that door.”

“I don't want another explanation.”

My voice came out firmer than I felt.

“I want the truth.”

Adrian held my gaze for several seconds before finally pulling a small silver key from his trouser pocket.

“Then come with me.”

I followed him down the hallway.

Every step toward the room at the far end of the east wing made my heart beat faster. The letters of my name, carved into the dark door, seemed different now that I knew my father was connected to this place. They no longer looked like a threat; they looked like an invitation that had taken sixteen years to reach me.

Adrian stopped in front of the lock.

“Your father gave me this key three days before he died.”

I looked at him.

“And he asked you to keep this room locked for sixteen years?”

“He asked me to keep it closed until you were old enough to decide for yourself what to do with the truth.”

My chest tightened.

“Why didn't you tell me when I turned eighteen?”

“Because Victoria was still watching you.”

My mother's name made something inside me tense.

“My mother knew about this room?”

Adrian nodded.

“She knew it existed.”

“And she knew it was here?”

“Yes.”

“Then why did she never try to open it?”

Adrian inserted the key into the lock.

“Perhaps because she knew what was inside.”

The mechanism clicked.

The door slowly opened.

I expected to find documents, money, weapons, compromising photographs, or some other evidence of my parents' secret life, but none of those things appeared before my eyes.

The room was filled with photographs.

Photographs of me.

I stood frozen.

There was a picture of me at seven years old, sitting beside my father in the garden; another of my first day at school; one from my eighth birthday; and several I didn't even remember seeing before. In some, my father was there. In others, I was alone, playing, reading, or walking around the grounds of our old home.

I slowly approached one of the walls.

“Who took all these photographs?”

Adrian remained beside the door.

“Your father.”

I shook my head.

“That can't be. He worked almost all the time.”

“He found a way.”

I took a photograph between my fingers and studied it carefully. It showed me asleep on a sofa, a blanket over my legs and an open book resting against my chest.

“I don't remember this.”

“You weren't supposed to remember it.”

“Why?”

Adrian lowered his gaze.

“Because some things were taken so you could remember them someday, not so you would remember them then.”

A shiver ran through me.

I continued walking until I saw a small desk in the center of the room. On it was a wooden box.

My name was written on the lid.

Evelyn.

I recognized the handwriting immediately.

My fingers trembled.

“It’s my father's.”

Adrian nodded.

I moved closer, but before touching the box, I stopped.

“You knew this was here?”

“Yes.”

“You knew it had my name on it?”

“Yes.”

I looked at him.

“And you never thought about opening it?”

“It wasn't mine.”

His answer surprised me.

“You could have.”

“I could have done many things during these sixteen years.”

His eyes met mine.

“But your father asked me to respect the decisions you would one day have the right to make.”

For the first time since I had known him, I understood that Adrian hadn't kept those secrets solely to control my life. He had remained silent because someone who was no longer alive had asked him to.

And somehow, that made me trust him a little more.

I opened the box.

Inside was an envelope.

Just one.

My name was written across the front in the same handwriting I had seen on hundreds of cards throughout my childhood.

Tears began gathering in my eyes.

“It's from him.”

Adrian said nothing.

I took the envelope in both hands and carefully opened it. Inside were several folded sheets, yellowed with age.

I unfolded the first page.

The first line made my breath catch.

My dear Evelyn,

I closed my eyes for a moment.

I hadn't heard my father's voice in sixteen years, but that handwriting managed to bring him back in a way no photograph ever had.

I continued reading.

If you're reading this letter, it means you are finally old enough to learn a truth your mother will try to keep from you.

My heart began pounding.

I looked at Adrian.

He didn't look away.

I returned to the letter.

Victoria is not the woman you think she is.

My fingers froze against the paper.

No.

It couldn't be.

My mother could be cold, distant, and controlling, but she was still the woman who had raised me after my father's death. The woman who had stayed beside me when I had a fever, the woman who had taught me to defend myself, the woman who had spent years telling me that my father had loved me more than anything in the world.

How could my father have written something like that about her?

I kept reading.

I don't want you to hate her. I want you to understand that some people can do terrible things while believing they are protecting what they love.

My breathing slowed.

This didn't sound like an accusation.

It sounded like a warning.

Your mother has made mistakes that I may never forgive myself for failing to stop sooner. But the danger didn't begin with her. She simply chose to become part of it.

I looked up.

“What does this mean?”

Adrian remained silent.

“Adrian.”

“Keep reading.”

I lowered my eyes again.

If you ever hear that my death was an accident, don't believe it.

The page trembled between my fingers.

My father knew.

He knew he might die.

And above all, Evelyn, don't trust anyone who tells you the past should remain buried.

My eyes moved across the next few lines.

Then I reached a sentence that made my blood run cold.

The person who tried to destroy me didn't want my company. They wanted something only I knew.

I quickly turned to the next page.

It had been torn out.

“What…?”

I checked the envelope.

There were no more pages.

“Part of it is missing.”

Adrian stepped closer.

“Yes.”

“Who took it?”

His jaw tightened.

“I don't know.”

“But you know who could have done it.”

He didn't answer.

I stood.

“Was it my mother?”

Adrian held my gaze.

“I have no proof.”

“That's not the same as saying no.”

“No.”

The honesty of his answer made me even more uneasy.

“What happened three days after my father gave you this letter?”

Adrian lowered his eyes for a moment.

“He died.”

“I already know that.”

My voice cracked.

“I want to know what really happened.”

Adrian took a deep breath.

“Your father discovered that someone inside his own family was working against him.”

“Who?”

“He never managed to tell me.”

“But he was investigating them.”

“Yes.”

“And my mother?”

Adrian raised his eyes.

“Your mother knew he was investigating.”

I felt the ground disappear beneath my feet.

Before I could ask another question, my phone began ringing.

I looked at the screen.

Mom.

For several seconds, I couldn't bring myself to answer.

Finally, I accepted the call.

“Evelyn?”

Her voice sounded strange.

It wasn't the voice of the powerful woman I knew.

It was tired.

Frightened.

“What do you want?”

There was a long pause.

“Did you open the room?”

My heart raced.

“How do you know it exists?”

My mother took a deep breath.

“Because your father told me you would one day open it.”

I looked at Adrian.

His expression had changed.

“Then tell me the truth.”

Victoria's voice trembled.

“You don't know what you're doing.”

“I'm trying to find out who killed my father.”

Silence.

Then my mother whispered:

“Your father didn't die because of what he discovered.”

I stood completely still.

“Then why did he die?”

Another pause.

And then I heard something I had never heard in my mother's voice before.

Fear.

“Because he tried to save you.”

The call ended.

I slowly looked at Adrian.

“Save me from what?”

He didn't answer.

Instead, his gaze moved toward a photograph hanging at the back of the room.

A photograph I hadn't seen before.

I moved closer.

It was my father.

My mother.

And a teenager I recognized immediately.

Adrian.

But something was strange.

I was standing between them.

And my hand was holding Adrian's.

I turned the photograph over.

There was a date on the back.

August 14.

My birthday.

But beneath the date was a sentence written by my father.

The day Evelyn forgot who tried to kill her.

My heart stopped.

Because for the first time, I realized that perhaps my memory hadn't disappeared by accident.

Someone had made sure I forgot.