Chapter 3 - THE BOY IN THE PHOTOGRAPH
“That is a complete fabrication!” Vanessa’s voice echoed off the high ceiling of the ballroom.
She signaled to the security guards standing near the catering doors. “Have this woman removed immediately. She is disturbing a private corporate event.”
Two large men in dark suits began walking toward us.
“Stop right there,” Walter barked, raising his silver cane.
The authority in the old manager’s voice froze the guards in their tracks. Walter turned his steely gaze back to Grant, who was staring at the silver bracelet in my shaking hands.
“Tell them to stand down, Grant,” Walter said. “Or I walk over to that table of reporters and tell them exactly why the SEC was quietly auditing Mercer Logistics last month.”
Vanessa gasped.
Grant closed his eyes for a long moment, then gave a sharp nod to the guards. They backed away.
“Mom, please,” Grant begged, his voice cracking. “You have to believe me. There is no other child. Dad was sick. He was confused at the end.”
I looked down at the bracelet. The dent on the clasp—I remembered the day I got it. I had bumped my wrist against the doorframe of my husband’s old Chevy truck. He had laughed and kissed my hand. He wasn’t a man of secrets. He was a man of quiet, steady love.
“Give me the letter, Sarah,” I demanded, looking up at the woman in the emerald dress.
Sarah’s expression tightened with regret. “I don’t have it, Mrs. Mercer. When my father passed away last year, I went through his safe. I found the bracelet and an envelope with your name on it. But before I could reach you...”
She paused, glancing at Vanessa.
“Before I could reach you, someone broke into my office. They didn’t take cash. They didn’t take the electronics. They only took the envelope.”
“And you’re accusing us?” Vanessa scoffed, crossing her arms. “We don’t even know who you are. This is extortion.”
“I’m not accusing you, Vanessa,” Sarah said, her voice dropping to a chilling calmness. “I know it was you. Because the man you hired to do it was wearing a Mercer Logistics uniform. He didn’t realize my father had installed a hidden camera behind the wall clock.”
The ballroom fell into an uneasy murmur. The investors at the adjacent tables were now openly staring, their champagne glasses suspended in mid-air.
I turned to my son. My chest felt hollow, like someone had scooped out my heart and left nothing but cold air.
“Grant. Did you steal a letter from your father?”
“No!” Grant said, his eyes wide. “Mom, I swear to God, I didn’t know anything about a letter.”
He looked so desperate, so entirely convincing. But then, Vanessa stepped closer to him and placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Grant,” she whispered, but the microphone on the nearby podium picked up the sharp edge of her voice. “Don’t say another word without legal counsel.”
“I’m talking to my mother, Vanessa!” Grant snapped, pulling away from her.
It was the first time in ten years I had ever heard him raise his voice at his wife.
Vanessa’s eyes flashed with anger, but before she could retaliate, Sarah reached into her clutch again.
“I don’t have the letter,” Sarah said to me. “But the security camera caught something else. The thief opened the envelope to check the contents before he left the shop. He dropped something. It slid under the baseboard.”
She pulled out a small, folded piece of paper. It was yellowed with age.
My breath caught.
Sarah unfolded it and handed it to me.
It wasn’t a document. It was a photograph.
It showed my husband, younger, smiling brightly. He was standing on the porch of the house on Willow Street. But he wasn’t alone.
He was holding a little boy.
The boy was about four years old, wearing denim overalls, holding a bright red toy truck.
“That’s Grant,” I breathed, a wave of confusing relief washing over me. “That’s just Grant when he was little. Why would someone steal a picture of Grant?”
Walter leaned over my shoulder and looked at the photo.
“Evelyn,” Walter said softly. “Look at the date stamped on the bottom right corner.”
I squinted at the faded red numbers.
October 14, 1985.
My relief shattered into a million jagged pieces.
“That’s impossible,” I whispered.
“What is it?” Grant asked, trying to step closer, but Walter blocked him with his cane.
“Grant was born in 1988,” I said, my voice trembling so hard I could barely form the words. I looked up at Sarah, then at Walter. “My son wasn’t even born yet when this photo was taken.”
I stared back at the little boy in my husband’s arms. He had my husband’s dark hair, his crooked smile, his exact chin.
“If this isn’t Grant...” I choked out. “Then who is this child?”
May you like
Vanessa let out a sharp, cold laugh.
“Well,” she said, her facade finally cracking to reveal something dark and bitter beneath. “I suppose it’s time she knew the truth about her precious husband, Grant. Tell her where you really found the company’s seed money.”
