Chapter 6 - THE BOOK
“Since before my father died.”
My voice sounded distant.
Leah clutched the book tighter.
Victor took one step back.
He made no move toward her.
Good.
“Thomas said he hid copies,” Victor said. “I never knew where.”
I looked at Leah.
“Baby, may I see the book?”
She handed it to me.
The cover read THE TRAVELS OF IBN BATTUTA FOR YOUNG READERS.
A library discard.
Tape along the spine.
Coffee stain on the back.
My father had repaired it himself.
I had watched him do it at our kitchen table.
Suddenly every strip of clear tape looked intentional.
Julian brought a conservation specialist named Dr. Priya Shah into the lab.
I liked her immediately because she spoke to Leah first.
“May I look at your book?”
Leah nodded.
“Will you hurt it?”
“No.”
“If you have to?”
Priya smiled slightly.
“I’ll ask.”
That seemed to satisfy her.
Priya placed the book beneath a low examination light.
She found nothing in the pages.
Nothing behind the covers.
Then she examined the spine.
“This was rebound.”
“I know,” I said. “My father fixed it.”
“No.”
She looked closer.
“He rebuilt it.”
Victor closed his eyes.
Priya used a small tool to lift one loosened section of cloth.
Inside the hollow spine were tightly rolled strips of microfilm.
Owen whispered, “There it is.”
I felt no victory.
Only anger.
“My father put this in a child’s book?”
Victor shook his head.
“He probably put it in his own book.”
Leah nodded.
“It was Grandpa’s first.”
That eased something inside me.
Only slightly.
Priya developed digital scans.
Records appeared across the monitor.
Acquisition inventories.
Photographs.
Emails.
Handwritten notes.
The museum’s real history.
Julian stood motionless as page after page revealed how several objects had entered Mercer custody despite unclear or false ownership claims.
The blue-and-gold manuscript was one.
Not all.
Eleven items.
Millions of dollars in insured value.
But the money felt almost irrelevant now.
Names mattered more.
Khaled Haddad.
Three Syrian families.
Two Iraqi scholars.
A university collection dispersed during conflict.
The museum had not stolen everything directly.
That almost made it worse.
People had hidden behind technicalities.
Bought from intermediaries.
Accepted suspicious paperwork.
Called silence due diligence.
Julian read one email twice.
It had been sent by his mother.
We will return the eleven objects once ownership chains are confirmed. No exceptions.
He looked up.
“She really did try.”
Victor nodded.
“Late.”
“But she tried.”
“Yes.”
The next email came six days later.
From Charles Vale.
If these pieces leave before the capital campaign closes, Mercer will collapse and Thomas Carter will have accomplished nothing except destroying the only institution capable of preserving them.
Julian’s face hardened.
“There.”
Owen leaned closer.
A response followed.
From Eleanor.
Do not threaten Thomas again.
Again.
The word changed the room.
I looked at Victor.
“She knew Charles threatened my father.”
“Yes.”
“Did Charles arrange the attack?”
“I suspected it.”
“Did you ask him?”
“No.”
“Why?”
Victor’s shame returned.
“Because I was afraid the answer would be yes.”
I almost hated him for that.
Almost.
“Cowardice still makes choices, Victor.”
“I know.”
Leah spoke softly.
“Grandpa said that.”
Victor looked at her.
“What?”
“He said being scared doesn’t make you bad.”
A pause.
“It just doesn’t make your choice disappear.”
Victor sat down.
For the first time, he looked close to tears.
“Your grandfather was kinder to me than I deserved.”
We kept reading.
The records showed Eleanor had moved three disputed objects out of exhibition storage and into a restricted conservation vault.
Then two weeks later, they had been returned to display.
By Victor.
Julian stared at him.
“You put them back.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Edmund ordered me to.”
Julian’s face fell.
“My father?”
“Yes.”
Another reversal.
Every time one of his parents looked cleaner, the other became harder to understand.
Victor opened a file.
“Edmund had received a threat.”
“What threat?”
“Charles controlled bridge financing.”
Julian laughed bitterly.
“Of course he did.”
“If Edmund returned the collection immediately, Charles would call the loan.”
“So my father chose the museum.”
“Yes.”
Victor swallowed.
“But not permanently.”
“He made another plan?”
“Yes.”
“He asked Thomas to help him.”
I stared.
“My father helped Edmund after the attack?”
“For months.”
That shocked me more than anything else.
“My father hated this place.”
“No.”
Victor looked around the conservation lab.
“He hated what we did.”
There was a difference.
“He believed the museum could still become what it claimed to be.”
Leah smiled faintly.
“That sounds like Grandpa.”
Victor nodded.
Together, Thomas and Edmund created a return plan that would protect staff pensions, avoid bankruptcy, and identify rightful custodians.
Not legal trickery.
A practical path.
Sell two newly acquired commercial properties.
Pause the expansion.
Use donor reserve funds.
Return the eleven items publicly.
Admit the provenance failures.
It would have hurt.
It would not have destroyed Mercer.
“Why didn’t they do it?” Julian asked.
Victor looked at him.
“Because Edmund died before the plan was finalized.”
Julian frowned.
“My father died four years after Thomas was attacked.”
“Yes.”
“That is plenty of time.”
“Except they lost contact.”
“Why?”
Victor looked at me.
“Thomas stopped answering Edmund.”
I shook my head.
“My father kept everything.”
“He kept grudges too.”
Victor gave a sad smile.
“Yes.”
“But he didn’t stop answering people without a reason.”
“No.”
“Then what happened?”
Victor hesitated.
Owen pulled up the remaining microfilm scans.
A series of photographs appeared.
Letters.
Returned envelopes.
All addressed to my father.
All marked UNDELIVERABLE.
The addresses were wrong.
Not dramatically.
One digit changed.
One apartment number reversed.
Someone had prevented Edmund’s letters from reaching him.
Julian whispered, “Charles.”
Victor shook his head.
“No.”
“Then who?”
Owen enlarged the routing marks.
The returned envelopes had all been processed internally before mailing.
By the executive office.
Julian stared.
“That was my mother’s office.”
Victor nodded.
My anger shifted again.
“Eleanor separated them?”
“I don’t know.”
Julian looked exhausted.
“We keep saying that.”
Priya clicked to the final scan.
It was not a letter.
It was a photograph.
My father standing outside our apartment building.
Beside him was Eleanor Mercer.
The date was six years after the attack.
Two years before Edmund died.
On the back, my father had written:
SHE FINALLY TOLD ME WHY THE LETTERS NEVER CAME.
Below that:
EDMUND NEVER KNEW.
Julian stared at his mother.
Then Priya enlarged the lower corner.
A second person stood across the street.
Watching them.
Victor leaned closer.
His face lost all color.
“Charles.”
Julian looked at him.
May you like
Victor whispered:
“That was the week Thomas disappeared for three days.”
