Chapter 4 - The Man Who Was Supposed To Be Dead
The message stayed on my phone screen for almost five minutes.
Your father lied.
I wanted to delete it.
I wanted to pretend none of this had happened.
But then I looked at the photograph again.
My father.
Standing outside Brooks & Bloom.
Three days after his funeral.
The same face.
The same eyes.
The same small scar above his eyebrow from the accident he had when I was twelve.
It was him.
There was no mistake.
My father was alive after the day everyone told me he died.
I looked at Adrian.
He was still standing across from me in the darkness of my flower shop.
The emergency lights from the street outside barely illuminated his face.
"Did you know?"
My voice sounded different.
Lower.
More afraid.
Adrian did not answer immediately.
That silence was enough.
"You knew."
He looked away for a second.
"Amelia."
"No."
I stepped back.
"You knew my father was alive."
"I knew there were questions about his death."
"That is not what I asked."
My hands were shaking.
"You knew."
Adrian took a breath.
"I knew your father disappeared."
The word hit me.
Disappeared.
Not died.
Not passed away.
Disappeared.
"Everyone told me he died."
"I know."
"His funeral happened."
"I know."
"My mother spent months crying."
"I know."
I looked at him.
"And you are standing here telling me he just disappeared?"
Adrian's expression changed.
Not guilt.
Something worse.
Regret.
"Your father wanted you to believe he was gone."
I laughed quietly.
It was the only thing I could do.
Because the alternative was breaking down.
"My father wanted me to believe he was dead?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
Adrian looked at the photograph in my hand.
"Because someone was trying to kill him."
The room became silent.
I thought about my father.
The man who taught me how to plant roses.
The man who always checked the locks before bed.
The man who would wake up at 5 a.m. just to make coffee before work.
He was never afraid.
At least, not in front of me.
"Who?"
Adrian did not answer.
I stepped closer.
"Who was trying to kill my father?"
"My family."
The honesty surprised me.
Adrian Moretti did not defend himself.
Did not make excuses.
"My father built an empire."
His voice remained calm.
"But not everyone in that empire respected the rules."
I looked at the damaged photograph.
"The person whose face was scratched out."
Adrian nodded.
"Someone close to us."
"Someone who knew my father?"
"Yes."
"Someone who knew me?"
Another pause.
"Yes."
My stomach tightened.
Before I could ask another question, the lights came back on.
The sudden brightness made both of us look toward the front door.
Nothing.
Only the empty street.
But the feeling remained.
Someone had been there.
Watching.
Waiting.
Adrian walked toward the window.
"They know we have the photograph."
"Who?"
He looked at me.
"The same person who edited the video of you at Bellamy & Rowe."
I felt my anger return.
"So this was never about Isabella."
"No."
Adrian shook his head.
"Your mother was the target."
I frowned.
"My mother?"
He looked at me carefully.
"Isabella."
I understood.
The woman I thought I saved.
The woman who seemed powerless.
She had been hiding something.
"What does my father have to do with her?"
Adrian walked back to the counter.
"Your father was the reason my mother survived eight years ago."
I waited.
He continued.
"Someone inside my family arranged an attack."
"And my father stopped it?"
"Yes."
"How?"
Adrian looked at the old photograph.
"Your father knew something they didn't want anyone to discover."
"What?"
He opened another folder.
Inside were copies of old documents.
Bank records.
Property transfers.
Names.
Dates.
I scanned the pages.
Then I saw it.
A company name.
Brooks Holdings.
I looked up.
"That's my last name."
"Yes."
"But my father was a carpenter."
"That was the life he wanted you to see."
My chest tightened.
Everything I knew about my father was changing.
The quiet man who repaired furniture.
The man who avoided attention.
The man who never talked about money.
He had been hiding an entire life.
"Why didn't he tell me?"
Adrian looked at me.
"Because he believed knowing the truth would put you in danger."
I shook my head.
"I spent eight years grieving someone who was alive."
"I know."
"No, you don't."
My voice cracked.
"You don't know what that feels like."
For the first time, Adrian looked away.
And I realized something.
Maybe he did understand.
Maybe he had lost people too.
A few minutes later, he left.
But before he walked out, he gave me one warning.
"Do not go home tonight."
I frowned.
"What?"
"Stay somewhere else."
"Why?"
His eyes became serious.
"Because whoever sent that message wants you to find the truth."
I waited.
"And?"
"They want you to find it before they stop you."
After he left, I closed my shop.
But I did not go home.
I stayed inside.
Sitting behind the counter.
Looking through my father's old things.
At midnight, I found something hidden inside the wooden box.
A small key.
I had never seen it before.
Attached was a piece of paper.
My father's handwriting.
My heart stopped.
Amelia,
If you found this, it means I failed to keep you away from this.
Do not trust anyone who tells you I abandoned you.
I never did.
I grabbed the note with both hands.
There was more.
A location.
An address.
And one sentence underneath.
The truth is buried where I said goodbye.
I knew the place.
My father's old workshop.
The one sold after his death.
The one nobody had entered for years.
I should have called Adrian.
I should have waited.
But I couldn't.
Because for eight years, I had lived with a lie.
And I needed answers.
The next morning, I drove to the old workshop.
The building looked exactly the same.
Dusty windows.
Rusting metal door.
A place everyone had forgotten.
I inserted the key.
The lock turned.
The door opened slowly.
Inside, everything was covered with white sheets.
Old tools.
Old furniture.
Old memories.
I walked deeper.
Then I noticed something.
A small wooden box sitting on the workbench.
My father's handwriting was carved into the top.
My name.
Amelia.
My hands trembled as I opened it.
Inside was a letter.
A photograph.
And a recording device.
I pressed the button.
My father's voice filled the empty workshop.
"Amelia, if you are hearing this, then Isabella was right."
I froze.
My father's voice.
After eight years.
"I am sorry."
Tears filled my eyes.
"I wanted to come back."
The recording continued.
"But I couldn't."
A sound came from behind me.
A floorboard.
Someone else was inside.
I slowly turned around.
The workshop door closed.
A shadow stood in the doorway.
Then a familiar voice whispered:
"Amelia..."
I dropped the recording device.
May you like
Because I knew that voice.
It was my father's voice.
