Chapter 3 - The Secret Hidden In My Father’s Name
The photograph fell from my hands.
For a few seconds, I could not move.
The flower shop was silent except for the low hum of the cooler behind me.
Ask your father about Isabella.
Five words.
Five words written in handwriting I knew better than my own.
My father’s handwriting.
I picked up the photograph again.
My fingers felt cold.
"Where did you get this?"
The man in the dark suit looked at me carefully.
"Adrian Moretti found it."
"Found it where?"
He hesitated.
That hesitation told me enough.
"There are things you need to hear from him directly."
I placed the photograph on the counter.
"No."
The man looked surprised.
"No?"
"I spent two days being called a thief, a liar, and a violent person because someone wanted to destroy my life."
My voice became sharper.
"Now someone gives me a picture of myself and tells me to ask questions about my dead father?"
The man remained quiet.
I laughed once.
Not because anything was funny.
Because my life had suddenly become something I did not recognize.
"My father died eight years ago."
"I know."
"Then explain why his handwriting is on this."
The man looked toward the window.
"Because your father knew Isabella Moretti."
The name hit harder than I expected.
I already knew Isabella.
The frightened elderly woman from Bellamy & Rowe.
The woman I protected.
But suddenly she was connected to my father.
A man who had spent his entire life avoiding attention.
My father, Thomas Brooks, was not the kind of person people whispered about.
He was a carpenter.
A quiet man.
A man who fixed broken chairs, repaired old houses, and always came home smelling like sawdust.
He never talked about powerful people.
Never talked about secrets.
Never talked about anyone named Isabella.
"I think you should leave."
The man didn't argue.
He simply placed a small card beside the envelope.
"If you change your mind, Adrian wants to speak with you."
After he left, I locked the door.
Then I stood there for almost an hour.
Staring at the photograph.
Trying to find an explanation.
There had to be one.
There always was.
My father had never lied to me.
At least, that was what I believed.
I went home earlier than usual.
My apartment was small.
Simple.
The kind of place where every object had a memory attached to it.
I opened the drawer beside my bed.
Inside was an old wooden box.
The only thing I kept from my father after his funeral.
Letters.
Photographs.
A broken watch.
I placed the new photograph beside everything else.
Then I noticed something.
A small mark in the corner.
A symbol.
A circle with three lines through it.
My father had drawn that symbol before.
I had seen it when I was younger.
But I never knew what it meant.
I grabbed my father's old notebook from the box.
The pages were filled with sketches.
Measurements.
Random notes.
Things I never understood.
Until now.
Near the back of the notebook was the same symbol.
And underneath it was one sentence.
I had never noticed it before.
"Some debts cannot be paid with money."
My heartbeat increased.
My father had secrets.
That was the only explanation.
The next morning, I drove to the cemetery.
I stood in front of his grave for almost twenty minutes.
I wanted to be angry.
I wanted to demand answers.
But I couldn't.
Because he wasn't there.
The person I needed to question was gone.
I touched the stone.
"Dad, what did you get involved in?"
The wind moved through the trees.
No answer came.
Of course it didn't.
I almost walked away.
Then my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
"Hello?"
A woman's voice spoke.
Older.
Familiar.
"Amelia?"
I froze.
"Who is this?"
A pause.
Then:
"It's Isabella."
I looked at my father's grave.
"How did you get my number?"
"I have known your number for years."
My stomach tightened.
"What?"
"Your father gave it to me."
The cemetery suddenly felt colder.
"Why?"
Her voice became emotional.
"Because he knew one day you would need the truth."
I closed my eyes.
"Did you know my father?"
"Yes."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because your father asked me not to."
I almost laughed.
Everyone kept saying my father.
My father.
As if he had been protecting me from something.
But nobody asked if I wanted protection.
"Mrs. Moretti, I need answers."
"I know."
"Who was my father to you?"
Silence.
Long silence.
Then Isabella whispered:
"He saved my life."
I didn't speak.
"Your father was the only person who stood beside me when everyone else was afraid."
"Afraid of what?"
Another pause.
Then she said:
"The Moretti family."
I felt confused.
"But you are a Moretti."
"Yes."
Her voice became quieter.
"And that is why your father was in danger."
I sat down on the bench.
My father's entire life suddenly looked different.
The quiet man who built furniture.
The man who hated violence.
The man who told me honesty mattered more than money.
He had been connected to a powerful family.
A family people feared.
"Why did he hide this from me?"
"Because he loved you."
I looked down.
"That doesn't answer my question."
"No."
Isabella's voice broke slightly.
"It doesn't."
For the first time, she sounded afraid.
"Amelia, listen to me carefully."
I stood.
"What?"
"Do not go looking for answers alone."
"Why?"
"Because the person who attacked you already knows you found the photograph."
My blood ran cold.
"What are you talking about?"
Before she could answer, the call disconnected.
I stared at my phone.
Then I noticed something.
A car parked across the street.
Black.
The same kind of car I had seen outside my flower shop.
Someone was watching me.
I walked toward it.
The car started immediately.
Then disappeared.
That evening, Adrian Moretti finally met me.
Not at some hidden location.
Not in a dark room.
He came to my flower shop.
The powerful man from the videos.
The man everyone described as dangerous.
But when he walked inside, the first thing he did was look at the flowers.
Not the security cameras.
Not the room.
The flowers.
"My mother said you built this place yourself."
I crossed my arms.
"She talks about me?"
"More than you would expect."
I didn't know how to respond.
Adrian placed a folder on the counter.
Inside were documents.
Photographs.
Records.
I opened the first page.
My father's name appeared.
Thomas Brooks.
My hands stopped.
"What is this?"
"Your father worked with my family."
"No."
The answer came instantly.
Because I didn't want it to be true.
Adrian didn't argue.
"He wasn't part of my family's business."
I looked at him.
"Then what was he?"
His eyes became serious.
"He was the person who kept my mother alive."
I stared at him.
"My father?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
Adrian looked toward the photograph of my father on the wall behind the counter.
"Because your father discovered someone inside my family was planning to betray Isabella."
I felt my throat tighten.
"Who?"
Adrian didn't answer.
Instead, he opened another file.
Inside was an old photograph.
My father.
Isabella.
And another person standing between them.
A person whose face had been scratched away.
Someone had tried to erase them.
"Who is that?"
Adrian looked at the damaged photograph.
"Someone who should not still be alive."
My fingers tightened around the picture.
"What does that mean?"
Before Adrian could answer, every light in my flower shop suddenly turned off.
Darkness filled the room.
Then my phone vibrated.
One new message.
Unknown number.
I looked at the screen.
Three words appeared.
"Your father lied."
Then another message arrived.
A photo.
My hands started shaking.
May you like
Because the picture showed my father standing outside Brooks & Bloom...
Three days after the day he was supposed to have died.
