Chapter 15 - GHOSTS OF THE PASTTwo weeks later, I returned to the old family estate in the countryside where my father had spent his final years working on restoring vintage wooden clocks.
The snow had melted into a cold, steady spring rain, tapping rhythmically against the glass windows of the rustic workshop. I needed space—away from the reporters, away from the endless phone calls, and away from the lingering shadows of a marriage built entirely on deception.
While sorting through my father’s old cedar workbench, I noticed a false panel beneath the bottom drawer—the exact same design mechanic Julian had used in his executive desk in Cleveland.
Curiosity piqued, I pressed the hidden latch.
Click.
The wooden panel slid open smoothly, revealing a heavy leather-bound journal that my father had kept during his final years of business partnerships in the city.
I opened the brittle yellowed pages, turning past meticulous sketches of clock gears and financial notes, until I stopped dead in my tracks.
A loose photograph fell out onto the workbench.
It was a picture taken twenty-five years ago. It showed my father standing outside a downtown corporate building alongside a much younger man with sharp hazel eyes and an unmistakable smirk.
The man in the photo wasn't Julian.
It was Detective Thomas Vance.
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Written on the back of the photograph in my father’s shaky handwriting was a single, blood-chilling sentence:
“Trust no one. Thomas Vance isn't investigating the syndicate—he built it.”
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