Chapter 6 - THE ROSARY
I shoved the drawing into my pocket alongside the emerald bracelet and hurried out of the bathroom, chasing after my father.
He moved with a sudden, purposeful stride, navigating the grand staircase of our mansion not like a homeless man, but like a master of the house.
I reached the bottom step just as he entered the formal living room.
Beatrice Sterling was standing by the fireplace, pouring herself a glass of our most expensive scotch. She wore an impeccably tailored navy pantsuit, her silver hair perfectly coiffed. Around her neck hung a heavy, ornate antique gold rosary—a piece she claimed kept her grounded in her faith.
Julian stood beside her, his arms crossed, holding a manila folder.
When my father walked into the room, Beatrice paused mid-pour.
The crystal decanter slipped from her manicured fingers and shattered against the marble hearth, splashing amber liquid everywhere.
Beatrice turned bone-white. Her eyes bulged as she stared at the man she hadn't seen in two decades.
Julian stepped forward, completely missing his mother's sheer panic.
"Here he is, Mother. The man claiming to be Elias Thorne. I told you, it’s a sick trick."
But Beatrice didn't look at Julian. She looked at my father, and her hand instinctively flew to the heavy gold cross of her rosary, gripping it like a lifeline.
"Hello, Beatrice," my father said. His voice was smooth, chillingly calm.
Beatrice took a stumbling step backward, her expensive heels crunching on broken crystal. "David?" she whispered, her voice trembling with genuine terror.
I froze.
Julian frowned, looking between his mother and my father. "Mother, his name was Elias. Why did you call him David?"
Beatrice seemed to realize her mistake, her eyes darting wildly. She swallowed hard, forcing her posture straight, trying to regain her aristocratic composure.
"It's the shock, Julian," she lied smoothly. "He looks exactly like him. But it can't be Elias. Elias is dead."
"I am Elias Thorne," my father said, stepping fully into the light of the chandelier. "And I am very much alive."
Beatrice stared at the jagged scar near his hairline. She knew exactly how he had gotten it.
"You're a fraud," Beatrice snapped, her voice gaining strength as she went into defense mode. She turned to Julian. "Throw him out, Julian. Now. Before I call the police."
"He's not leaving," I said, stepping up beside my father. I looked Beatrice dead in the eye. "And neither are you, until we get the truth."
"The truth is in this folder, Mariana," Julian said impatiently, tapping the manila envelope. "Mother brought the bank records. Elias Thorne drained four million dollars from the company accounts using forged signatures. My father found out, confronted him, and Elias ran."
"If he ran with four million dollars," I challenged, "why has he been sleeping on cardboard outside the bus terminal for twenty years?"
Julian hesitated. That was the one piece of logic he couldn't beat.
Beatrice sneered. "Criminals lose their money all the time, Mariana. Drugs. Gambling. Who knows what pathetic life he led?"
My father slowly reached into his pocket.
Beatrice flinched, taking another step back.
But my father didn't pull a weapon. He pulled his empty hand out and pointed a single finger at the heavy gold rosary around Beatrice’s neck.
"You wore that the night you lured me to the Southside site," my father said, his voice echoing in the quiet room. "You were crying. You told me Richard was going to kill you if he found out what you did with the offshore accounts."
"Lies!" Beatrice shrieked, her composure shattering. "Julian, make him stop!"
"You begged me to take the blame temporarily," my father continued, his memories flowing like a broken dam. "You said you would fix the books and clear my name. But when I turned around to look at the blueprints..."
My father tapped the jagged scar on his head.
"Richard didn't hit me, Julian," my father said, turning his piercing gaze to my husband. "Your father wasn't even there. He was out of town in Boston. I remember now."
Julian blinked, confusion crashing into his anger. "What? No, my father told me—"
"Your father lied to protect her," my father interrupted, pointing at Beatrice. "She hit me. With a steel rebar."
Beatrice let out a high, mocking laugh, but it was entirely hollow. "This is absurd. Look at me! I couldn't overpower a grown man!"
"You didn't overpower me," my father said softly. "You hit me from behind while I was trying to help you. And while I was bleeding on the ground, you leaned over me. I smelled your gardenia perfume."
Beatrice’s hand gripped the rosary so tightly her knuckles turned white.
"You left me to die in the mud," my father said. "And then you vanished."
Beatrice stared at him, her chest heaving. Then, shockingly, her panic morphed into a cold, terrifying calm.
She let go of the rosary. She reached into her designer handbag, bypassed her phone, and pulled out a heavy, rusted iron key.
May you like
She slammed it down onto the glass coffee table with a loud clack.
"You think you remember everything, Elias?" Beatrice smiled, a cruel, twisted expression. "You remember nothing. I kept this safe for you. Tell them what this opens. Tell them what you really did."
