Chapter 10: The Photograph That Proved My Father Was Alive
For fourteen years, I had believed my father died beneath a collapsed construction platform.
I remembered the police officer who came to our house. I remembered my mother collapsing against the kitchen counter. I remembered the funeral, the closed coffin, and the way everyone kept telling me that my father had died instantly.
Now I was staring at a photograph of him standing outside a lake house two days after his supposed death.
My hands shook so violently that Nathan took the phone from me.
"Emily, look at me," he said.
"We don't know when this picture was taken. The date could be wrong.""
I pointed at the image.
"That's my father. Look at his left hand. He lost the tip of his little finger in a workshop accident when I was eight.""
Nathan enlarged the photograph.
The man's left hand rested against the doorframe. The missing fingertip was unmistakable.
My mother began to cry.
"Your father told me he was afraid," she whispered.
I turned toward her.
"You knew?""
"No. Not that he was alive. But three days before the accident, he called me from work and said something had happened. He told me to keep you and Lauren close to home.""
"Why didn't you tell me?""
"Because the police came the next morning and told me he'd died. I believed them.""
She pressed a trembling hand to her chest.
"Until James Miller visited me three years later, I had no reason to question it.""
Nathan paced beside the hospital bed.
"Someone staged your father's death, hid Richard's records, and used the same network of people to control both families.""
"That doesn't explain why Isabella had an insurance policy on my father," I said.
My phone vibrated again.
Another message from Lauren.
*I'm at the old service road. Someone took the folder. I don't know who. Please don't come looking for me.*
I called her immediately.
The phone rang twice before she answered.
"Lauren, where are you?""
"Near the entrance to the lake property.""
"Are you hurt?""
"No. I'm hiding behind a maintenance building.""
Her voice was thin and breathless.
"Emily, there are two men here. One took the red folder from the house. The other was waiting by a black SUV.""
"Did you see their faces?""
"One of them was Daniel.""
Nathan leaned toward the phone.
"Did you see him clearly?""
"Yes. He looked older, but it was him.""
"Where is he now?""
"I don't know. They drove away.""
Nathan closed his eyes.
"Lauren, listen carefully. Police officers are coming. Stay where you are and keep your phone on.""
"I can't stay.""
"Why?""
"Because the other man is walking toward me.""
The call ended.
I nearly dropped the phone.
Nathan immediately contacted the officers again. They confirmed they were approaching the property and would search the surrounding roads.
Michael arrived at the hospital less than twenty minutes later, carrying a laptop and a folder of company documents.
He listened to the new information without interrupting.
When I showed him my father's photograph, he leaned toward the screen.
"Where did this come from?""
"Lauren sent it.""
Michael examined the image's details.
"The file appears to have been photographed from a printed picture. The date on the message isn't necessarily the date the original image was taken.""
"Can you determine when it was taken?"" I asked.
"Not from this copy alone.""
I felt a surge of frustration.
"So we have a photograph, a missing folder, and two men who may be connected to deaths that weren't what they appeared to be.""
"We have enough to investigate," he replied.
"But we need to separate what we know from what we suspect.""
Nathan opened the documents Michael had brought.
"Can you check my father's insurance records against Emily's father's?""
Michael nodded and began typing.
Within minutes, he found something that made him stop.
"There's a connection.""
Nathan moved closer.
"What?""
"Three years before Richard died, Whitmore Hospitality purchased a life insurance policy on an outside consultant. The beneficiary was a private company that no longer exists.""
"Who was the consultant?"" I asked.
Michael turned the laptop toward us.
The name on the screen was my father's.
*Thomas Carter.*
I stared at it.
"My father worked in construction. He never worked for a hotel company.""
"According to these records, he provided consulting services for a property renovation project," Michael said.
"The policy was issued shortly before the project began.""
Nathan's expression darkened.
"Who authorized it?""
Michael opened another document.
"Richard Whitmore.""
My mother covered her mouth.
"Richard must have discovered something about Thomas, too.""
"Or my father was involved in whatever Richard was investigating," I said.
The possibility made me feel physically ill.
Had my father been a victim? A witness? Or had he helped someone steal millions of dollars?
I couldn't reconcile the man who taught me to ride a bicycle with the name on a suspicious insurance policy.
Then Michael found the payment record.
The policy had paid out after Thomas Carter's death.
But the beneficiary wasn't my mother.
It was a company registered under a name I had never heard before.
*Carter Ridge Holdings.*
Michael searched the corporate registry.
The company had been dissolved fourteen years earlier.
Its listed director was Daniel Cross.
Nathan sat down slowly.
"My father knew Daniel. Daniel knew Emily's father. And Isabella controlled the company records.""
I looked at the photograph again.
"Then why is my father still alive?""
No one answered.
My mother's phone rang.
She glanced at the screen and went pale.
"It's an unknown number.""
Nathan reached for it.
"Put it on speaker.""
She answered with a trembling hand.
A man's voice came through, low and distorted.
"Margaret, you've kept your promise long enough.""
My mother stopped breathing.
"Who is this?""
"You know who I am.""
Her lips parted.
"Thomas?""
The room fell silent.
The voice continued.
"Tell Emily to stop looking for me. If she wants to keep Nathan alive, she needs to forget everything she saw tonight.""
Then the caller hung up.
I stared at my mother.
She was shaking so badly that Nathan had to take the phone from her.
For fourteen years, I had mourned my father.
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Now someone claiming to be him had threatened my husband.
And somewhere in Nashville, the man I thought was dead was watching us.
