Chapter 2 - The Man in the Doorway
I screamed.
Not because I was afraid of him.
Because I knew his face.
Thomas Reed.
My father.
Same narrow nose.
Same gray-green eyes.
Older.
Thinner.
Alive.
He stepped into the garage and immediately raised both hands.
“Emily, don't move.”
“I can't move.”
His eyes dropped to my bandaged leg.
Then to the prescription bottle missing from my discharge bag.
Then to the folder Eleanor had thrown beside me.
His expression changed.
“What did they do?”
I laughed once.
It sounded almost hysterical.
“You're dead.”
“I know.”
“That is not an answer.”
“No.”
He walked toward me.
I grabbed the thick envelope and held it like a weapon.
“Stay back.”
Thomas stopped.
Good.
At least one person in my family still understood the meaning of no.
He looked toward the security camera.
“Is that recording?”
“Yes.”
Relief crossed his face.
“Keep it recording.”
“How did you get in?”
He held up an old brass key.
My stomach dropped.
Only three people had ever possessed keys to our side garage door.
Me.
Mark.
And my grandmother Lydia.
Lydia died five years ago.
The house had originally belonged to her.
“Where did you get Grandma's key?”
Thomas answered:
“She gave it to me.”
Impossible.
Lydia had spent years telling me Thomas died in a boating accident.
She had cried at his memorial.
I had watched her scatter ashes.
Apparently not his.
“Why did she lie?”
“Because I asked her to.”
I stared at him.
Then the pain in my leg surged.
Thomas noticed.
“Where's your medication?”
“Eleanor took it.”
His jaw tightened.
“Of course she did.”
The way he said it stopped me.
“You know Eleanor?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
He looked at the envelope in my hand.
“That's why I'm here.”
The brown envelope had appeared inside Mark's locked desk three nights before my accident.
It contained copies of property transfers involving my design company and a commercial building my grandmother left me.
Some documents bore my signature.
I had never signed them.
Others referenced Eleanor Hale Revocable Trust.
I photographed everything.
Then placed copies in the garage safe.
The next morning, my car was hit at an intersection.
The collision shattered my femur.
Police ruled the other driver at fault.
I had assumed terrible timing.
Now Thomas said:
“Your accident wasn't supposed to happen.”
I went cold.
“Supposed to?”
“The driver was following you.”
My grip tightened around the envelope.
“Why?”
“To see where you were taking the documents.”
“Who hired him?”
Thomas hesitated.
“Not Eleanor.”
That surprised me.
“Then Mark?”
“No.”
“Who?”
Before he could answer, footsteps sounded inside the house.
Mark's voice:
“Mom?”
Thomas moved quickly.
He closed the garage door halfway and whispered:
“Put the envelope back.”
“No.”
“Emily—”
“No more people deciding what I should know.”
He stared at me.
Then nodded.
“Fair.”
He helped slide me behind the gray SUV without touching my injured leg.
I kept the envelope.
Mark entered.
He stopped when he saw the empty floor.
“Emily?”
Thomas remained hidden on the other side of the SUV.
Mark walked farther in.
“Emily?”
His voice changed.
Fear.
Not concern.
Fear that I had escaped.
Then his phone rang.
He answered.
“What?”
Pause.
“No, she's still here.”
My stomach tightened.
Who was he talking to?
Then Mark said:
“She hasn't opened it.”
Thomas looked at me.
That was when I understood.
May you like
Mark knew about the envelope.
And whoever was on the phone cared more about those papers than whether I lived or died.
