Chapter 3 - The Photograph From 1999
“Mom?”
Grace did not recognize the woman standing in her bedroom doorway.
Not because Eleanor Miller looked different.
Because Eleanor Miller had never held a gun in her life.
She hated violence in movies.
She closed her eyes when television detectives fired weapons.
Once, when Grace was twelve, Eleanor had trapped a mouse under a laundry basket and cried because she felt guilty.
Now she held a pistol with both hands.
And it was pointed at Min-jae.
“Move away from my daughter.”
Min-jae did not reach for his own weapon.
“Mrs. Miller.”
“You know me?”
Grace stepped between them.
“Mom, put it down.”
Eleanor’s hands shook.
“Grace, come here.”
“I’m right here.”
“Away from him.”
“Why?”
“Because you don’t know who he is.”
Grace almost laughed.
“That part actually came up.”
“Not what he does.”
“I know enough.”
“No.” Eleanor’s eyes filled. “You don’t.”
Min-jae remained motionless.
Grace looked at the photograph again.
Six-year-old Grace.
Min-jae’s mother.
“What is this?”
Eleanor’s face collapsed.
“Where did you get that?”
“It was on my pillow.”
“Who gave it to you?”
“I don’t know.”
Eleanor lowered the gun a fraction.
Min-jae noticed.
“So they found you,” he said.
Eleanor’s gaze snapped to him.
“You stay quiet.”
Grace turned.
“You two have met?”
Neither answered.
“Oh, fantastic.”
Grace rubbed both hands over her face.
“My fake date was using a fake identity. Min-jae has a secret brother. Someone broke into my apartment. Now my mother owns a gun and apparently knows the mafia boss I cook for.”
Eleanor whispered, “You cook for him?”
Grace stared.
“Yes.”
“You told me you worked at a restaurant.”
“I do.”
“You never said his restaurant.”
“I didn’t think the ownership structure mattered.”
Eleanor sank onto the edge of the bed.
The gun lowered.
Jun-ho gently took it from her.
She didn’t resist.
Grace crouched in front of her.
“Mom.”
Eleanor looked at her daughter.
“What happened in 1999?”
Eleanor closed her eyes.
Grace waited.
Finally, her mother spoke.
“You were six when I took you to Seoul.”
“I don’t remember Korea.”
“You weren’t supposed to.”
Grace frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“You remember getting sick that summer?”
“A little.”
“You had a fever.”
“Yes.”
“You were in a hospital for eleven days.”
Grace looked toward Min-jae.
He knew something.
She could see it.
“Keep going.”
Eleanor swallowed.
“Your father was alive then.”
Grace stopped breathing.
Her father, Michael Miller, had supposedly died when Grace was three.
A construction accident in Boston.
There were photographs.
A funeral.
A grave.
“Mom.”
“I lied.”
Grace stood slowly.
“You lied about Dad dying?”
“He did die.”
“When?”
“Three years later.”
Grace backed away.
“No.”
“Grace.”
“No.”
“The man you knew from the photographs was Michael Miller. He raised you. He loved you. But he was not your biological father.”
The room tilted.
Grace sat down hard on the chair.
Min-jae took one step toward her.
She held up her hand.
“Don’t.”
He stopped.
Grace looked at Eleanor.
“Who was?”
Eleanor looked at Min-jae.
And Grace knew before she heard the name.
“No.”
Eleanor began crying.
“His name was Han Tae-sung.”
Min-jae’s father.
Grace laughed once.
The sound came out broken.
“No.”
Min-jae said nothing.
“No.”
She looked between them.
“Tell me she’s lying.”
He couldn’t.
Grace stood.
“Tell me.”
“Grace.”
“Say it.”
“I can’t.”
She slapped him.
The sound cracked through the bedroom.
Jun-ho looked away.
Eleanor gasped.
Min-jae did not move.
Grace’s hand shook.
“You knew?”
“Not when we met.”
“When?”
“Three weeks ago.”
“And you said nothing.”
“I was trying to confirm it.”
“You knew for three weeks.”
“I suspected.”
“You let me cook for you.”
“Yes.”
“You let me sit in your office.”
“Yes.”
“You drove me home.”
“Yes.”
“You let me think…”
She stopped.
Min-jae’s face changed.
“Think what?”
Grace looked away.
“Nothing.”
But everyone understood.
Especially him.
Min-jae said carefully, “Grace, our fathers—”
“Same father?”
“No.”
She stared.
“But your mother—”
“Seung-won and I share a father. You do not.”
Grace’s confusion deepened.
Eleanor wiped her eyes.
“Han Tae-sung was not Min-jae’s biological father.”
Grace looked at Min-jae.
He nodded once.
“My mother married Han Tae-sung after I was born.”
“So we aren’t related.”
“No.”
The relief that crossed Grace’s face was so immediate that she hated herself for it.
Min-jae noticed.
He looked away.
Eleanor did too.
Grace flushed.
“This is insane.”
“Yes,” Eleanor said.
“Why was I photographed with his mother?”
“Because she saved your life.”
Grace looked down at the photograph.
“She did?”
Eleanor nodded.
“Han Tae-sung had enemies. Many. When he discovered I was pregnant, he wanted to bring me into his household in Korea. I refused. Years later, after Michael and I married, Tae-sung found us.”
Grace listened silently.
“He threatened Michael. He threatened me. So we agreed to meet him in Seoul to end it.”
“And?”
“Your father—Michael—brought evidence against him. Financial records. Names. Shipping manifests.”
Min-jae’s expression hardened.
“What evidence?”
“Enough to destroy him.”
“Where is it?”
“I don’t know.”
Grace stared at her mother.
“Why would Dad have evidence against a Korean crime boss?”
Eleanor’s eyes lowered.
“Because Michael worked for the FBI.”
Grace stopped.
Of course.
Why not?
At this point the family cat announcing he ran an international spy ring would barely surprise her.
“He was FBI?”
“Financial crimes.”
“And Han Tae-sung?”
“Used American companies to move money.”
Min-jae asked, “What happened in Seoul?”
Eleanor’s voice became smaller.
“Michael arranged to trade the evidence for our freedom. But Tae-sung never intended to honor the deal.”
Grace looked again at the photograph.
“And his mother?”
“Seo-yeon found out what he planned.”
Min-jae’s face tightened at his mother’s name.
Eleanor continued.
“She took you from the hotel before Tae-sung’s men arrived.”
Grace felt cold.
“She saved me.”
“Yes.”
“She knew me?”
“For eleven days.”
“The hospital.”
“You really did get sick. Pneumonia. Seo-yeon stayed beside your bed almost every night.”
Grace looked toward Min-jae.
His eyes were fixed on the photograph.
“How old were you?” she asked.
“Fourteen.”
“Did you meet me?”
He nodded.
Grace’s breath caught.
“You remember?”
“Yes.”
“Why don’t I?”
“You were sick.”
“What happened?”
Min-jae took the photograph.
His fingers touched the edge carefully.
“My mother brought you to our apartment for one night before she moved you to a safe house.”
“And you were there?”
“Yes.”
Grace searched his face.
“What did I do?”
For the first time that night, something almost warm entered his expression.
“You stole my blanket.”
Grace blinked.
“What?”
“You said yours was scratchy.”
Despite everything, she laughed.
A tiny sound.
Min-jae looked at her.
“You also ate half my breakfast.”
“That sounds more believable.”
“You hated kimchi.”
“I was six.”
“You still hate kimchi.”
“I do not hate kimchi.”
“You remove it from every meal.”
“Because you buy terrifying kimchi.”
Eleanor watched them.
Something like grief crossed her face.
Grace noticed.
“What?”
Her mother shook her head.
“Nothing.”
“No. No more nothing.”
Eleanor sighed.
“Seo-yeon told me something before we left Korea.”
“What?”
“She said someday her son might find you.”
Grace looked at Min-jae.
“She said if he did, I should not be afraid of him.”
Min-jae turned away.
Grace’s chest tightened.
“What happened to her?”
Nobody answered immediately.
Grace already suspected.
“She died?”
Min-jae nodded.
“When?”
“Two months after you returned to America.”
“How?”
He looked at the floor.
“My stepfather.”
Grace’s stomach dropped.
“Han Tae-sung killed her?”
“We could never prove it.”
“But you believe it.”
“Yes.”
Eleanor whispered, “She died because she helped us.”
Min-jae looked at her.
“My mother made her choice.”
“She had a son.”
“She made her choice.”
The pain beneath his voice stopped Grace from responding.
Then a realization came.
“Why now?”
Min-jae looked at her.
“If all this happened twenty-seven years ago, why is Han Tae-sung suddenly after me?”
Eleanor’s face tightened.
“Because Michael left something behind.”
“Evidence?”
“I think so.”
“Where?”
“I told you. I don’t know.”
Grace studied her mother.
“You do.”
“No.”
“Mom.”
“I don’t.”
“You’re doing the thing with your mouth.”
“What thing?”
“The lying thing.”
“I don’t have a lying thing.”
“You absolutely do.”
Eleanor looked away.
Grace stood.
“Where is it?”
“I promised Michael.”
“He’s dead.”
“I know.”
“People are breaking into my home.”
“I know.”
“They kidnapped—or maybe didn’t kidnap—my fake date.”
“I don’t understand that sentence.”
“Neither do I.”
Grace crouched again.
“Mom.”
Eleanor’s eyes filled with tears.
“Michael told me never to give it to anyone unless you were in immediate danger.”
Grace looked around the destroyed apartment.
“I think we qualify.”
Eleanor gave a weak laugh.
Then she looked toward the kitchen.
“Your recipe box.”
Grace blinked.
“What?”
“The wooden one Michael made.”
“My recipes?”
“It has a false bottom.”
Grace ran to the kitchen.
The red oak recipe box sat on top of the refrigerator.
It had belonged to her father.
She had used it for twenty years.
Min-jae followed.
Grace placed it on the table.
Eleanor removed the recipe cards.
Then pressed two corners.
The bottom lifted.
Inside lay a brass key.
No papers.
No drive.
Just a key.
Attached to it was a metal tag.
Grand Central Terminal.
Locker 418.
Min-jae stared at it.
Eleanor whispered, “Michael told me if anyone ever came for Grace, this was the only thing that could stop them.”
Grace picked up the key.
Jun-ho’s phone rang.
He answered.
His expression changed immediately.
“Boss.”
Min-jae turned.
Jun-ho held out the phone.
“It’s Seung-won.”
Min-jae answered.
“Speak.”
His brother’s voice was frantic.
“You need to leave Queens.”
“Why?”
“Father knows about the locker.”
Min-jae looked at the key in Grace’s hand.
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
Then something crashed on Seung-won’s end.
A gunshot followed.
Grace flinched.
Min-jae’s face hardened.
“Seung-won?”
Silence.
Then another man picked up the phone.
An older voice spoke in Korean.
Min-jae went rigid.
Grace watched him.
“Who is it?”
Min-jae slowly lowered the phone.
His eyes found Grace.
“My stepfather.”
The speaker clicked on by itself.
Han Tae-sung’s voice filled the room.
“Bring me Grace Miller and the key.”
A pause.
May you like
“Or tomorrow morning, New York will find Seung-won’s body in the East River.”
Then the line went dead.
