Chapter 11 — The Man in the Photograph

I stared at him. For a second, I couldn't understand the words. Then they registered. Your father. I looked down at the photograph again. The man beside my mother was smiling. Like he belonged there. Like he hadn't spent years being a stranger. Like he hadn't just become the most terrifying person I'd ever seen. I looked back at Adrian. “My father?” He nodded once. I laughed. It wasn't because anything was funny. It was the kind of laugh that came out when your mind couldn't find another way to react. “No.” “Listen to me—” “No.” I stepped backward. “My father is dead.” Adrian didn't answer. “He died when I was little.” Still nothing. “My mother told me.” “I know.” I stared at him. “You know?” “Yes.” “Then why are you showing me this?” “Because you deserve the truth.” I held up the photograph. “This isn't the truth. This is a picture.” “It's proof.” “Proof of what?” “That he was there.” “When?” “Before you were born.” I looked at the photograph again. My mother looked happy. That was what bothered me most. She was standing beside him like she trusted him. Like she loved him. I felt something tighten in my chest. “If he's my father…” I couldn't finish. Adrian did. “He didn't die.” The room seemed to tilt. I gripped the edge of the table. “No.” “He disappeared.” “My mother said he died.” “She lied.” “Why?” “To protect you.” I shook my head. “Everyone keeps saying that.” “I know.” “And every time someone says they're protecting me, I find out they've been lying to me for years.” Adrian looked down. “I know.” I hated how calm he was. How he could stand there and say things that were destroying everything I thought I knew. “What did he do?” Adrian looked at me. “What?” “My father.” He hesitated. “What did he do?” “He was involved in things your mother was trying to get away from.” “That doesn't answer my question.” “No.” “Then answer it.” Adrian looked toward the photograph. “He wasn't always the man you're afraid of.” I frowned. “What does that mean?” “He changed.” “People don't just change into murderers.” His eyes met mine. “Some do.” Silence. I looked at the photograph again. “Did he hurt my mother?” Adrian didn't answer immediately. That was enough. My stomach dropped. “Did he?” “Yes.” My fingers tightened around the photograph. “How?” “He found out she was trying to leave.” “And?” “He wouldn't let her.” I swallowed. “Did he hurt her?” “Yes.” I closed my eyes. For years, I'd wondered why my mother never talked about my father. Why she changed the subject whenever I asked. Why every photograph of him had disappeared. Why there were so many things about my childhood that felt like missing pieces. Now I knew. Or at least I thought I did. “What happened to him?” “He disappeared after your mother did.” “Because you were looking for him?” “Yes.” “For sixteen years?” “Yes.” I looked at him. “And you never found him?” “No.” “But he found me.” Adrian went quiet. I looked at my phone. The unknown number. The messages. The photograph taken from inside the house. The voice. You look just like your mother. I felt sick. “He knows where I am.” “Yes.” “And he knows about you.” “Yes.” “And he knows I opened the safe.” “Yes.” I looked at Adrian. “So what happens now?” His answer came quietly. “He comes for you.” My heart stopped. “Why?” “Because you're the last thing connecting him to your mother.” I stared at him. “What does he want from me?” “I don't know.” “You're lying.” “I don't know.” “You always say that.” “Because sometimes it's the truth.” I turned away from him. I needed space. Air. Anything. My eyes landed on the old painting. The one that had started all of this. I walked toward it. Adrian followed. “What are you doing?” I ignored him. I reached behind the frame. Nothing. I checked the wall. Nothing. Then I remembered the safe. The photographs. The flash drive. The letter. I looked at Adrian. “My mother knew this would happen.” “Yes.” “She knew I'd find the safe.” “Yes.” “She knew I'd find out about my father.” “I think she suspected you would.” I frowned. “Then why didn't she tell me herself?” Adrian looked away. “Because she wanted you to have a normal life.” I laughed bitterly. “A normal life?” He didn't answer. I pulled out my phone. The video from the flash drive was still saved. I played it again. My mother's face appeared. Her tired eyes. Her shaking voice. If you're watching this… then they found you. I watched her carefully. This time, I noticed something. She kept looking toward the left side of the room. As if someone was standing there. Someone behind the camera. I paused the video. “Adrian.” He came closer. “Look.” I pointed at the screen. He frowned. “What?” “She keeps looking over there.” “So?” “Someone was there.” He stared at the frozen image. Then his expression changed. “You're right.” I replayed the video. My mother continued. Your father wasn't the only person who knew. I paused again. “Who else knew?” Adrian didn't answer. I turned toward him. “Who else?” “I don't know.” I narrowed my eyes. “You do.” “No.” “You reacted when she said it.” “I reacted because I remembered that night.” “Then remember harder.” He looked at me. I stepped closer. “My mother wasn't just afraid of my father.” “No.” “She was afraid of someone else too.” “Yes.” “Who?” Adrian looked toward the window. “The person who helped him.” My blood went cold. “There was someone else?” “Yes.” “Who?” He hesitated. Then— A sound came from downstairs. A door closing. Both of us froze. Adrian immediately reached for his phone. I whispered, “Someone's here.” He nodded. Then his phone vibrated. He looked at the screen. His face changed. “What?” He turned the phone toward me. There was one new message. YOU SHOULD HAVE LEFT HER ALONE. Another message appeared. NOW SHE KNOWS. Then a third. LET'S SEE WHAT SHE DOES WITH THE TRUTH. I stared at the screen. My heart was pounding. Adrian looked at me. “Stay here.” “No.” “Please.” It was the first time he'd ever said it like that. Not as an order. As a warning. I nodded. He started toward the stairs. Then I noticed something. The photograph was still in my hand. I turned it over. There was writing on the back. Something I hadn't noticed before. My mother's handwriting. Only four words. He isn't alone anymore. I looked up. “Adrian.” He stopped. I held up the photograph. He read the words. His face went completely still. Then he whispered, “Oh no.” “What?” He looked at me. “The person helping him…” A floorboard creaked downstairs. Adrian's hand moved toward the weapon hidden beneath his jacket. “…is already inside the house.”

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