Chapter 6 - The Letter My Father Never Wanted Me To Read
The office door closed behind us.
Slowly.
Quietly.
Like someone on the other side had pushed it.
For several seconds, neither Margaret nor I moved.
The old wooden door stood between us and the hallway.
Between us and whoever had been inside this abandoned building before we arrived.
I looked at Margaret.
She looked terrified.
Not surprised.
Terrified.
"Did you lock the door?" I asked.
She shook her head.
"No."
I walked toward it.
My hand reached for the handle.
I turned it.
Nothing.
Locked.
I looked at the old lock.
"Someone is outside."
Margaret whispered:
"Harold..."
"What?"
She stared at the door.
"Your father used to say something."
I turned.
"What?"
"Never enter a room where someone wants you to enter."
I frowned.
"What does that mean?"
Her face changed.
"It means sometimes a trap looks like an answer."
I looked around the office.
My father's office.
The place he had hidden from me.
The place he had left behind.
A place that somehow still felt like he was waiting for me to arrive.
I picked up the letter again.
The paper shook slightly in my hand.
"The person who destroyed my life is the person Margaret has spent thirty-six years protecting..."
I looked at my wife.
"Is that you?"
Her eyes filled with tears.
"No."
"Then who?"
She didn't answer.
That was the problem with Margaret.
She always knew when the truth was close.
And every time it arrived, she stepped away.
I walked toward the desk.
"Your mother."
Margaret looked at me.
"What?"
"You said that photograph was your mother."
She nodded.
"And my father."
"Yes."
"Why were they together?"
She sat down slowly.
"I don't know."
I stared at her.
"You expect me to believe that?"
She looked at me.
"Harold, I spent years trying to find that answer."
"Then why hide it from me?"
"Because every time I got close..."
She stopped.
"Every time what?"
She looked toward the locked door.
"Someone made sure I stopped."
A cold feeling moved through me.
"Someone threatened you?"
She didn't respond.
That was enough.
"Margaret."
She finally whispered:
"They told me if I ever gave you the letter, you would end up like your father."
The room became silent.
My father's death.
My wife's fear.
The motorcycle.
The hidden documents.
Everything connected.
"Who told you that?"
She looked down.
"I never saw his face."
"Then how do you know it was a man?"
"Because of the voice."
I waited.
"Deep voice. Older. Calm."
She looked at me.
"That was the scariest part."
"What?"
"He never sounded angry."
I said nothing.
"He sounded like someone who knew he would win."
A loud sound came from outside the office.
A footstep.
Margaret stood immediately.
"Someone is here."
I moved closer to the door.
"Stay behind me."
She almost laughed.
"Harold, you don't understand."
"What?"
"If someone wanted to hurt us, they would have done it already."
I looked at her.
"Then what do they want?"
She whispered:
"The same thing they wanted forty years ago."
"The motorcycle?"
"No."
She looked at the letter.
"The proof."
I looked down at the paper.
My father had written everything carefully.
Like he knew one day I would find it.
Like he knew nobody could stop the truth forever.
I searched the desk.
Drawers.
Folders.
Old documents.
Then I found something.
A small metal box hidden beneath the bottom drawer.
I pulled it out.
Margaret stepped closer.
"Harold..."
"What?"
"I've never seen that."
I opened the box.
Inside was a small tape recorder.
Old.
The kind my father used when I was young.
There was a cassette inside.
A label was attached.
My handwriting was written on it.
But I didn't remember writing it.
"FOR HAROLD — WHEN YOU KNOW THE TRUTH."
My hands froze.
"My father wrote this."
Margaret looked at the tape.
"Play it."
I pressed the button.
For several seconds, there was only static.
Then...
My father's voice.
Older.
Tired.
But unmistakable.
"Harold."
I stopped breathing.
Because hearing his voice after forty years felt impossible.
"If you are listening to this, then something happened."
A pause.
"I hoped you would never need this."
My eyes filled.
Not because I was sad.
Because I was angry.
My father had known.
He had known something would happen.
And he still left me behind.
The recording continued.
"I need you to understand one thing."
Static.
Then:
"The motorcycle was never valuable because of what it was."
I looked at Margaret.
"It was valuable because of what it carried."
My father's voice became quieter.
"Years ago, Thomas Bell and I discovered something about our families."
Margaret froze.
"We discovered that the people we trusted were stealing from us."
I listened carefully.
"Money. Property. Records."
Another pause.
"But the worst part was not what they took."
My father's voice broke slightly.
"It was what they did to keep it hidden."
I felt my stomach tighten.
"Harold, if Margaret is with you..."
The recording stopped for a second.
Then continued.
"...ask her about the night she found your father's final document."
I looked at Margaret.
Her face changed.
She knew.
"You knew about this."
She looked away.
"Margaret."
She whispered:
"I was twenty-nine."
"What happened?"
She didn't answer.
The tape continued.
"She was young. She was scared."
My father's voice.
"She didn't understand what she was holding."
I stared at the recorder.
"Your father wasn't angry with Margaret."
The words surprised me.
"He knew she was being controlled."
Margaret covered her mouth.
A tear fell.
Then my father said the sentence that changed everything.
"The person you should fear is not Margaret."
I waited.
"The person you should fear is..."
The tape suddenly cut off.
The battery died.
"Of course."
I hit the recorder.
Nothing.
I looked at Margaret.
"Who?"
She shook her head.
"I don't know."
"You know something."
"I know enough."
"Tell me."
She looked at the locked door.
Then back at me.
"My father didn't work alone."
I waited.
"Who was with him?"
Her voice became almost a whisper.
"Your father."
I frowned.
"What?"
"My father and Robert Mason were not partners."
She looked at the photograph on the wall.
"They were investigating someone together."
"Who?"
She didn't answer.
Because suddenly...
the office lights turned off.
Everything went black.
Margaret grabbed my arm.
Someone outside the room moved.
Slow footsteps.
Coming closer.
I reached for my phone.
No signal.
The footsteps stopped.
Right outside the door.
Then something slid underneath the gap.
A piece of paper.
I picked it up.
Three words were written on it.
"ASK MARGARET'S MOTHER."
I looked at my wife.
"Your mother is dead."
Margaret stared at the paper.
Her face turned white.
"No..."
"What?"
She stepped backward.
"No, that's impossible."
"Why?"
Her voice shook.
"Because my mother wasn't dead."
I froze.
The door handle slowly began to turn.
Margaret whispered:
"Harold..."
May you like
The lock clicked open.
And standing outside the office was the woman from the photograph...
