Chapter 3 - The Photograph My Mother Hid for Twenty-Eight Years
My mother opened her apartment door at 1:17 in the morning wearing pink pajamas and holding a wooden spoon.
She looked at me.
Then at Larkin.
Then at the two men standing discreetly down the hallway.
"Penelope?"
"We need to talk."
Her gaze dropped to my crimson gown.
"This is either a very good story or a very bad one."
"Bad."
She stepped aside.
Larkin entered behind me.
My mother recognized him.
I saw it instantly.
The wooden spoon slipped from her hand.
"You."
Larkin stopped.
"Mrs. Woods."
I turned between them.
"You've met?"
My mother recovered quickly.
"No."
"You just recognized him."
"I've seen photographs."
"Mom."
She looked at me.
I held up my phone.
The photograph filled the screen.
All the color disappeared from her face.
"Where did you get that?"
"Someone sent it to me."
"Delete it."
"Who is he?"
She didn't answer.
I pointed to the man standing beside her younger self.
"That's Dad, isn't it?"
Her eyes filled.
For twenty-eight years, my mother had told me my father died in a highway accident before I was born.
There were no photographs.
No relatives.
No stories except carefully polished fragments.
His name had supposedly been Daniel Woods.
But the man in the photograph wasn't Daniel Woods.
Larkin spoke quietly.
"His name was Nathan Vale."
My mother closed her eyes.
"Stop."
I looked at Larkin.
"You knew him?"
"No. I was four when he died."
"Then how do you know?"
"My uncle kept records."
My mother laughed bitterly.
"Of course he did."
"Mom, tell me."
She sat down.
Suddenly she looked older than sixty.
"Nathan worked for the Steves family."
"What did he do?"
"He was an accountant."
I almost laughed.
Of course.
Apparently spreadsheets were hereditary.
"He discovered money was being stolen," she continued. "Millions. But not by the people everyone suspected."
Larkin became very still.
"Who?"
My mother looked directly at him.
"Vincent Carbone."
Silence.
She explained.
Carbone had been moving money through shell corporations, stealing from multiple families while manipulating records so rival organizations blamed one another.
Nathan discovered it.
My mother, working at the bank, helped him document the transfers.
They planned to expose everything.
Then Nathan died.
"Car accident?" I whispered.
My mother's eyes filled.
"No."
One word destroyed twenty-eight years of history.
I sat beside her.
"What happened?"
"I don't know exactly. I only know your father's car was found near the river. Your father's body wasn't."
I stared at her.
"No body?"
She shook her head.
"Then how do you know he died?"
"I don't."
The room tilted.
"You told me he was dead."
"I needed you to stop looking for him."
"I was a child!"
"Exactly."
Her voice broke.
"I was trying to keep you alive."
She took my hand.
"After Nathan disappeared, your uncle's organization came looking for the records. So did Carbone. I didn't know whom to trust."
She looked at Larkin.
"Then your father helped me."
Larkin frowned.
"My father?"
"Alexander Steves."
I'd never heard Larkin speak much about him.
Alexander had died when Larkin was sixteen.
"He discovered what his brother was doing," my mother continued. "He believed Nathan had been framed. He gave me money, new documents, and enough time to disappear."
"Why?"
"Because he was trying to clean up his family."
Larkin looked shaken.
That interested me.
"Did you know?"
"No."
For once, I believed his surprise completely.
My mother stood and walked toward an old bookcase.
She removed a battered hardcover copy of Pride and Prejudice.
From behind it, she pulled a small brass key.
"I hoped I'd never need this."
"What does it open?"
"A safe-deposit box."
"Where?"
"Brooklyn."
Larkin stepped closer.
"What's inside?"
My mother looked at him.
"The records."
The room went silent.
Twenty-eight years.
She had kept them.
"Why?" I asked.
"Insurance."
"Against whom?"
"Everyone."
My mother handed me the key.
I didn't take it.
"Why me?"
"Because somebody knows now."
Her eyes moved toward Larkin.
"And because I don't know how long I can keep protecting you from a story that has already found you."
My phone vibrated.
Another unknown message.
I opened it.
This one contained no photograph.
Just seven words.
THE BOX WILL BE EMPTY BY MORNING.
I showed Larkin.
He was already moving.
"Get your coat."
My mother grabbed my wrist.
"Don't."
"Mom—"
"If Carbone knows about the box, he'll be waiting."
Larkin looked toward his men.
"Daniel, call the bank's security office."
I stared at him.
"What are we doing?"
"Finding out whether someone accessed it."
Ten minutes later, we were in the back of a black sedan crossing Manhattan.
I was still wearing a four-thousand-dollar gown.
Larkin sat beside me.
For several minutes, neither of us spoke.
Then I asked, "Why did you really invite me tonight?"
He looked surprised.
"Thomas said you wanted to embarrass me."
"Thomas wanted that."
"And you?"
"I needed you there."
"Why?"
He hesitated.
Interesting.
"Larkin."
"Carbone requested an audit."
"So?"
"He specifically requested you."
My stomach tightened.
"He knew who I was before tonight."
"I suspected he might."
I turned toward him.
"You used me as bait?"
"No."
"You brought me into a room with him knowing he might recognize me."
"I brought you because I wanted to see his reaction."
"That's called bait."
His jaw tightened.
"You're right."
I hadn't expected that.
"I'm sorry."
I stared at him.
"Do crime bosses apologize often?"
"No."
"Maybe practice."
He almost smiled.
Then his phone rang.
He answered.
His expression changed immediately.
"What time?"
Pause.
"Send me the footage."
He hung up.
"The bank was accessed tonight."
"By whom?"
"Someone using your mother's credentials."
My blood went cold.
"She's been home all evening."
"I know."
We reached the bank shortly before two.
The manager met us privately.
He looked terrified of Larkin.
Within minutes, we were taken downstairs.
My mother's key turned.
The metal door opened.
Empty.
My heart sank.
"Someone took everything."
"No," Larkin said.
He reached inside.
In the back corner was a small white envelope.
My name was written across it.
PENELOPE.
I opened it.
Inside was a single photograph.
The same man.
My father.
But this photograph was recent.
Much more recent.
Gray in his hair.
Lines around his eyes.
Alive.
On the back, someone had written:
YOUR MOTHER WAS RIGHT ABOUT ONE THING.
Below it:
YOUR FATHER NEVER DIED.
And beneath that was an address.
Larkin read it over my shoulder.
His expression hardened.
I whispered the words I could barely believe.
"My father is alive."
Larkin looked at me.
"Maybe."
I turned toward him.
"What aren't you telling me?"
He stared at the photograph.
Then he said something that made the room colder.
May you like
"That address belongs to Thomas."
And suddenly the cousin who had invited me to the gala as a joke was connected to the father I'd been told was dead for twenty-eight years.
