Chapter 5 - THE DRAWING
"Let me see it," my father said, stepping toward me. He didn't look frail anymore. Dressed in Julian's clean clothes, with the grime washed away, I could finally see the ghost of the strong, vibrant man who used to carry me on his shoulders.
I handed him the heavy silver and emerald bracelet.
He ran his thumb over the tarnished metal. His breathing hitched.
"She smelled like gardenias," he whispered, his eyes widening. "The woman... the woman who was yelling before I got hit. She smelled like gardenias, and she was crying."
A cold chill washed down my spine.
Beatrice Sterling wore a signature gardenia perfume. She had it custom-blended at a boutique downtown. She still wore it every single day.
"She was there," I concluded, my mind racing. "Beatrice was at the construction site the night you were attacked. Julian's father didn't act alone."
A sharp knock on the bathroom door made us both jump.
"Mariana, open the door," Julian demanded from the hallway. "My mother is on her way. She's bringing the original police reports. We're putting an end to this tonight."
I quickly shoved the bracelet deep into my own pocket. I wasn't ready to show Julian. Not yet. Not when his mother was coming to spin whatever lies she had been telling for two decades.
I unlocked the door. Julian stood there, glaring at my father, who was now standing tall, his shoulders squared.
"My mother will be here in twenty minutes," Julian announced coldly. "She was the one who managed the company's finances back then. She knows exactly how much you stole, Thorne."
"I didn't steal anything," my father said, his voice surprisingly deep and steady.
Julian scoffed. "We'll see." He turned on his heel and walked back downstairs to wait for Beatrice.
I turned back to the trash bag. If the bracelet was in there, what else had been hidden in the lining of that wretched coat?
I ignored the stench and plunged both arms back into the coat, feeling every inch of the seams. Near the bottom hem, on the opposite side, the fabric felt unnaturally stiff.
I gripped the fabric and ripped the rotting seam apart.
A folded square of paper fluttered out, landing on the tile floor.
I picked it up carefully. The paper was yellowed, brittle, and stained with water damage, but the colors on it were still faintly visible.
I unfolded it.
The air rushed out of my lungs.
It was a child’s drawing. Crayon on construction paper. A wobbly, stick-figure man holding hands with a smaller stick-figure girl. Above them, in messy, uneven letters, were the words: To Daddy. I love you to the moon.
A sob tore from my throat.
"I drew this," I wept, tracing the faded crayon lines. "I was six years old. I drew this for your birthday."
My father moved beside me, staring down at the paper. His hand came up, gently touching the edge of the drawing. Tears welled in his pale eyes.
"I remember this," he choked out. "I folded it... I put it in my pocket that morning. The morning I left."
"You kept it," I cried, pulling him into a hug. He smelled like Julian’s expensive soap, but beneath that, he felt like my dad. I buried my face in his chest, weeping for the twenty years we had lost. "You didn't abandon us. You kept my drawing."
He held me tight, his large hand stroking my hair just as he used to.
But as I pulled away, wiping my eyes, something caught my attention. The paper was thick, like cardstock. And there was dark ink bleeding through from the back.
I turned the drawing over.
My breath caught.
On the back of my childhood drawing, written in elegant, slanting cursive ink, was a note.
Elias,
I have the cash. Meet me at the Southside site at 10 PM. Do exactly as we planned, or Richard will find out about everything. Take care of the girl, or else.
I stared at the handwriting. I had received birthday cards, Christmas cards, and anniversary notes for fifteen years with this exact handwriting.
"Beatrice," I whispered in horror.
My father stared at the note, his jaw tightening.
"She set me up," he said, the pieces of his shattered memory locking into place with terrifying speed. "She was the one who stole the money. She asked me to help her hide it from her husband. She lured me there."
Julian's mother wasn't a victim of embezzlement.
She was the mastermind. And she had used my father as the scapegoat.
Downstairs, the heavy oak front door opened, followed by the clicking of high heels on the marble floor.
"Julian, darling? Where is this imposter?" Beatrice's sharp, aristocratic voice echoed up the staircase.
My father’s head snapped toward the door. His eyes were no longer confused. They were burning with rage.
"It's time to go downstairs," my father said, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. He stepped out of the bathroom, leaving me staring at the back of the drawing.
May you like
Take care of the girl, or else.
She had threatened me twenty years ago. And now, she was sitting in my living room.
