Chapter 9 - The Man Behind the Glass
I couldn't speak.
My father had been alive four years after we buried him.
Four years.
Four birthdays.
Four Christmases.
Four years of my mother crying herself to sleep.
I stared at the photograph until the edges blurred.
Dominic said my name.
I barely heard him.
Claire reached for the picture.
“May I?”
I handed it over.
She studied the background.
“Look at the window.”
I leaned closer.
Behind my father and Lily stood a row of medical equipment.
A blue sign hung above a door.
REHABILITATION UNIT C.
Claire photographed the image.
“We can identify the facility.”
Dominic nodded.
“I'll have my staff check every property the company owned.”
“No,” Claire said.
He looked at her.
“Why?”
“Because we don't know which employees are compromised.”
Dominic accepted that.
I looked at the photograph again.
My father wasn't smiling.
His face was thinner than I remembered.
His left hand rested on Lily's shoulder.
His right hand was curled slightly.
I noticed a scar near his wrist.
A scar he'd gotten repairing our kitchen sink when I was twelve.
It was him.
Not a look-alike.
Not a mistake.
My father.
Alive.
I pressed the photograph against my chest.
“Why didn't he come home?”
Nobody answered.
I turned toward Dominic.
“Your father knew.”
Dominic looked at the medical form.
“I think he did.”
“Then he let us bury an empty coffin?”
His face tightened.
“I don't know what was inside.”
I stepped closer.
“You inherited his company.”
“Yes.”
“You lived in this house.”
“Yes.”
“You slept under his portrait.”
Dominic said nothing.
“And you never wondered what happened to the workers who died making your family rich?”
His expression changed.
“I did.”
“Not enough.”
He lowered his eyes.
“No.”
That answer surprised me.
I expected excuses.
Instead, he looked ashamed.
“I believed the reports,” he said.
“I believed the lawyers.”
“I believed my father when he told me Gabriel was unstable.”
His voice broke slightly.
“I spent years believing my brother had abandoned us.”
I looked at him.
For the first time, I saw the same kind of grief I carried.
Different circumstances.
Same wound.
But grief didn't make us allies automatically.
“Then help me find my father.”
Dominic nodded.
“I will.”
Claire interrupted.
“First, we need to know whether he's still alive.”
The words hurt.
But she was right.
The photograph was four years old.
A lot could happen in four years.
We spent the next two hours examining the cabinet.
Claire cataloged everything before removing documents.
Dominic arranged for an independent forensic team to preserve the hard drives.
I found employee lists.
Medical invoices.
Shipping records.
Payments to companies I'd never heard of.
Then I found a file marked PROJECT HARBOR.
Inside were photographs of children.
Twelve of them.
Different ages.
Different backgrounds.
Each photograph had a number.
Lily was number seven.
I stared at her face.
Then at the medical notes.
“Why were they studying these children?”
Claire examined the documents.
“Some appear to be participants in an unauthorized medical monitoring program.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means someone may have been collecting health information and samples without valid consent.”
I looked at the list.
“Why?”
Claire's face hardened.
“Possibly to conceal or study the effects of exposure linked to the company's operations.”
I felt sick.
“Were these children sick?”
“Some of the records suggest they were.”
I looked at Lily.
Her eyes were enormous.
She looked frightened in every photograph.
“Where is she now?”
Claire shook her head.
“We don't know.”
I turned another page.
A payment ledger.
Monthly transfers.
Recipient: HARBOR CARE SERVICES.
The final payment was dated last week.
My heart jumped.
“Claire.”
She looked up.
I pointed.
“They're still paying.”
She examined the ledger.
Then her expression changed.
“This isn't just an old cover-up.”
Dominic stepped closer.
“What is it?”
Claire looked at him.
“Someone is still funding the program.”
I stared at the last payment.
If the program was still operating, someone might know where Lily was.
Someone might know where my father had been taken.
My phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
A photograph appeared.
It showed an older man sitting beside a window.
Gray hair.
Thin shoulders.
A familiar scar on his wrist.
My breath stopped.
Dad.
Below the photograph was a message.
Stop looking.
A second message followed.
Or you'll lose him for real this time.
I showed Claire.
She immediately contacted Detective Ruiz.
Dominic stared at the image.
“That's Thomas.”
I nodded.
Tears blurred my vision.
Then another message arrived.
You have forty-eight hours.
Bring both halves of the compass.
No police.
I looked at Claire.
She looked at Dominic.
Nobody spoke.
Then my phone rang.
I answered before anyone could stop me.
A weak voice whispered, “Avery?”
My knees nearly buckled.
“Dad?”
A pause.
Then the voice said the words I had dreamed of hearing for eight years.
“My little fighter.”
I began sobbing.
“Dad!”
But before I could say anything else, he whispered:
May you like
“Don't trust the man standing beside you.”
The call ended.
