“No,” Samuel said. “I think it’s valuable.”
The word settled over the table.
Valuable.
Not just emotionally.
Not just historically.
Something more.
Emma looked at the old map Samuel had laid out, showing the restaurant property, the lots behind it, and several adjacent parcels purchased over the years by companies with different names.
“Daniel,” she said slowly, “do you remember when we first renovated the storage room?”
I turned to her. “Behind the kitchen?”
She nodded. “There was that old
sealed door. The contractor said it probably led to a basement, but the city plans didn’t show one.”Hire Contractors
I remembered.
We had been exhausted, broke, and weeks behind schedule. A contractor had found a bricked-over doorway behind shelving. Opening it would have required permits and money we didn’t have. We had covered it with drywall and promised to come back to it someday.
We never did.
Samuel leaned forward. “A basement not on city plans?”
“Maybe,” I said. “Or an old cellar.”
Emma looked at the map again.
“What if Ashford isn’t after the restaurant building?” she said. “What if they’re after what’s under it?”
No one spoke.
Then the doorbell rang.
The sound echoed through the house.
Everyone turned toward the hallway.
A minute later, the security guard appeared at the library door, holding a plain manila envelope.
“Mr. Hayes,” he said, uneasy. “Someone left this at the front
gate.”
“Who?” I asked.
“I didn’t see. It was placed just outside the camera angle.”
Samuel immediately stood. “Don’t open it yet.”
But the envelope had my name on it.Browse Reference
And beneath my name, written in a different hand, were three words.
Ask Emma first.
The room went completely still.
Emma rose slowly.
Her face had gone pale again, but her eyes were steady.
Samuel put on gloves from his briefcase and opened the envelope with careful precision. Inside was a single flash drive and a folded piece of paper.
He unfolded the paper.
Then he looked at Emma.
“What does it say?” I asked.
Samuel handed it to her.
Emma read it silently.
Her hand flew to her mouth.
I stepped closer. “Emma?”
She turned the note toward me.
There were only two sentences.
Rose Avery didn’t die when they told you she did.
And Clara Whitaker was not
your mother’s real name.
