Chapter 2 - THE PHOTOGRAPH
For several seconds, nobody moved.
The photograph was old.
Not eighteen months old.
Newer.
Much newer.
Julian was standing in front of a farmhouse I didn't recognize.
He looked thinner than I remembered.
His beard was longer.
There was a scar across his left cheek.
But he was alive.
And he was smiling.
Grace was in his arms.
She couldn't have been more than a few weeks old.
And beside him stood my mother.
Evelyn Caruso.
Dead for six years.
I turned the photograph over.
Three words were written on the back.
TRUST NO ONE.
Below them was a date.
Six months ago.
My hands went cold.
“Impossible,” Vincent whispered.
I looked at him.
“You said my mother was dead.”
“She is.”
“Then explain this.”
He couldn't.
Hannah had backed against the wall.
“Mr. Caruso…”
“Call me Alexander.”
She blinked.
“What?”
“If you're going to help me protect my brother's daughter, you're going to stop calling me Mr. Caruso.”
She nodded.
Grace made a small sound.
I looked down.
She was reaching toward the photograph.
I let her touch it.
Her fingers landed directly on Julian's face.
That hurt.
More than I expected.
My brother had been dead.
I'd mourned him.
I'd blamed myself.
I'd believed I'd failed him.
Now I wasn't sure whether I'd failed him—or whether someone had made sure I never had the chance to save him.
Vincent moved toward the window.
“Whoever fired those shots knew exactly where you were standing.”
“I know.”
“They weren't trying to kill you.”
I looked at him.
“What?”
“They could have.”
He pointed toward the photograph.
“They wanted you to find that.”
The realization chilled me.
Someone had shot through my office window after Grace exposed herself.
Not to kill me.
To send a message.
I looked at Hannah.
“Where's your phone?”
She hesitated.
“Give it to me.”
She did.
I handed it to Vincent.
“Check it.”
He looked confused.
“Why?”
“Because someone may have been tracking Grace.”
He examined the device.
A minute later, his expression changed.
“There's an unknown tracking application.”
Hannah gasped.
“I didn't install that.”
“I know.”
Vincent looked at me.
“It was installed remotely.”
“Can you trace it?”
“Give me ten minutes.”
“You have five.”
He left.
I carried Grace into the private sitting room connected to my office.
It had once belonged to my mother.
I hadn't entered it since her funeral.
Dust covered the shelves.
Her books were still there.
Her perfume bottle sat untouched on the vanity.
Everything looked exactly as she'd left it.
Except one thing.
A painting.
I stared at it.
My mother had always kept a portrait of our family above the fireplace.
My father.
My mother.
Julian.
Me.
But someone had removed Julian's portrait.
I walked closer.
Behind the empty frame was a small metal safe.
My pulse accelerated.
I opened it.
Inside was a single envelope.
My name was written across it.
ALEXANDER.
I opened it.
There was a letter.
My mother's handwriting.
I knew it immediately.
If you're reading this, Julian failed to stay hidden.
My hands shook.
I kept reading.
Your brother is not dead.
I stopped breathing.
Hannah covered her mouth.
I continued.
But the man everyone calls Julian Caruso may not be the man you remember.
I read the next line twice.
He discovered what our family built—and what your father was willing to sacrifice to protect it.
Then:
Grace is the key.
I looked at the baby.
“What does that mean?”
The letter continued.
Never take her to the police.
Never trust anyone carrying a Caruso ring.
And if Julian returns, don't let him see you first.
The final sentence was written darker than the others.
Because if he comes back, someone has already lost control of the game.
I lowered the letter.
Hannah was crying.
“You knew about the ring, didn't you?”
She looked terrified.
“My father had one.”
“Your father?”
“He worked for your family.”
“What was his name?”
“Daniel Reed.”
I froze.
Daniel Reed.
The man my father had accused of stealing $12 million before he disappeared.
The man whose death had supposedly been confirmed twelve years ago.
I looked at Hannah.
“Your father isn't dead.”
She stared at me.
“What?”
I held up the photograph.
“Your father is standing behind Julian.”
Her knees nearly gave out.
“What?”
I turned the photograph.
There he was.
Older.
Gray hair.
But unmistakable.
Daniel Reed.
Hannah took a step backward.
“My father died when I was thirteen.”
“No.”
I pointed to the picture.
“He was alive six months ago.”
Before she could answer, Vincent rushed back into the room.
His face was grim.
“I found the tracker.”
“Who installed it?”
He handed me the phone.
“The signal isn't coming from outside.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“It's coming from inside this house.”
Silence.
Then every light in the room went out.
Grace began to cry.
And somewhere in the darkness, a man's voice whispered:
“Alexander.”
I froze.
I knew that voice.
I had heard it in my dreams for eighteen months.
Julian.
“Don't trust Hannah.”
Then the emergency lights came on.
May you like
The room was empty.
But Grace was gone.
