PART 3 — THE MAN AT THE DOOR
DON’T LET DAD OPEN THE FRONT DOOR.
I read Vanessa’s message twice.
Then a fourth knock sounded through the house.
Dad was already moving.
I grabbed his arm.
“Wait.”
He looked down at my hand.
“What?”
I turned my phone toward him.
He read Vanessa’s message.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then another message appeared.
NATALIE, I’M SERIOUS.
Dad’s jaw tightened.
“Ask her who’s outside.”
I typed quickly.
WHO IS AT MY HOUSE?
The three dots appeared immediately.
Vanessa was typing.
Then they disappeared.
“She’s not answering,” I whispered.
Dad looked toward the hallway.
Another knock.
Three slow taps.
Exactly like before.
Not impatient.
Not aggressive.
Almost deliberate.
Dad started forward again.
“Dad.”
“This is your house.”
“Exactly.”
I crossed the kitchen, opened the drawer beside the refrigerator, and pulled out the small security monitor connected to the camera above my porch.
The screen flickered on.
A man stood outside.
Tall.
Heavy coat.
Gray hair.
His back was toward the camera.
My stomach tightened.
“Dad…”
He stepped beside me.
“What?”
I enlarged the image.
The man’s face remained hidden.
But his height.
His shoulders.
His gray hair.
They looked almost identical to the man in the photograph Vanessa had been standing beside.
Dad whispered one word.
“Impossible.”
The man knocked again.
Then he spoke.
“Natalie?”
My blood went cold.
He knew my name.
Dad reached for the door.
I stopped him again.
“No.”
“Natalie—”
“We don’t know who that is.”
“I intend to find out.”
My phone buzzed.
Vanessa.
This time she was calling.
I answered immediately.
“Who is outside?”
“Don’t open the door.”
“Who is he?”
“Natalie, listen to me.”
“Tell me who he is.”
Vanessa began crying.
“Where’s Dad?”
“Standing beside me.”
“Keep him away from the door.”
Dad took the phone.
“Why?”
Vanessa went silent.
“Answer me.”
“Dad…”
“Who is standing outside Natalie’s house?”
Her voice dropped almost to a whisper.
“I don’t know.”
Dad laughed bitterly.
“You know exactly who it is.”
“No, I don’t.”
“You called him Dad at your mother’s funeral.”
Silence.
I watched Dad’s face.
Vanessa finally whispered:
“Who told you that?”
Dad didn’t answer.
She repeated herself.
“Who told you?”
“Harold’s neighbor.”
Vanessa inhaled sharply.
“Listen to me. Whatever Harold told you—”
“Harold didn’t tell me anything.”
Dad held up the photograph.
“We found the picture.”
Nothing.
“The bank, Vanessa. Six months ago.”
Her breathing changed.
Dad continued.
“And we know someone went into Harold’s house yesterday pretending to be me.”
“Dad, please.”
“Was it him?”
Silence.
Dad’s voice hardened.
“Was it the man outside?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then why shouldn’t I open the door?”
Vanessa began crying harder.
“Because if it’s who I think it is, he didn’t come there to hurt you.”
Dad stared toward the entrance.
“Then what does he want?”
Vanessa whispered:
“Natalie.”
My stomach dropped.
“Me?”
Dad turned toward me.
“Why?”
Vanessa didn’t answer.
The man outside knocked again.
Then he said something that made Dad’s entire body stiffen.
“Richard.”
He knew Dad was here.
“Richard, I know you’re inside.”
Dad handed me the phone.
“Stay here.”
“Dad!”
He walked into the hallway.
I followed.
“Dad, don’t.”
He stopped in front of the door.
The man spoke again.
“We should have had this conversation thirty-seven years ago.”
Dad’s hand froze above the lock.
Behind me, Vanessa screamed through the phone.
“DON’T OPEN IT!”
Dad unlocked the deadbolt.
I grabbed his sleeve.
He looked at me.
For a second, he wasn’t the furious father from the kitchen anymore.
He looked seventy-two.
Tired.
Confused.
And scared.
But he opened the door anyway.
Cold morning air rushed into the hallway.
The man on my porch slowly turned around.
Dad stopped breathing.
I had never seen him before.
But Dad had.
His lips parted.
“No.”
The stranger’s face was older and thinner than Dad’s.
A pale scar ran from his temple toward his ear.
His eyes were gray.
Exactly like Dad’s.
And although the two men weren’t twins, the resemblance was unmistakable.
The stranger smiled sadly.
“Hello, Richard.”
Dad gripped the doorframe.
“Thomas?”
The man’s eyes filled with tears.
“Been a long time.”
Dad stumbled backward.
I caught his arm.
“You know him?”
Dad couldn’t answer.
The stranger did.
“I’m Thomas Cole.”
My heart hammered.
The supposedly dead brother.
Dad shook his head.
“No.”
Thomas remained on the porch.
“You died.”
“That’s what you were told.”
“I saw your grave.”
“You saw a headstone.”
Dad’s face twisted.
“Stop.”
“You never saw my body.”
“Stop!”
Dad slammed the door.
Thomas didn’t try to stop him.
Dad backed away as if he’d seen a ghost.
“Dad?”
He stared at me.
“My brother died when I was thirty-five.”
“How?”
Dad swallowed.
“Car accident.”
“Did you see him afterward?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“He was burned.”
The words barely came out.
“My mother identified him.”
Thomas’s voice came through the door.
“No, Richard.”
Dad looked toward it.
“Mother identified a wallet.”
Silence.
Then:
“Not me.”
Dad sank onto the hallway bench.
I sat beside him.
My phone was still connected to Vanessa.
She wasn’t speaking.
I remembered.
“Vanessa.”
Dad’s head lifted.
I put the phone on speaker.
“He’s here.”
She whispered:
“I know.”
Dad stared at the phone.
“You knew Thomas was alive.”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
Vanessa didn’t answer.
“HOW LONG?”
“Nine years.”
Dad’s face collapsed.
Nine years.
Our mother had died nine years earlier.
The same funeral where Vanessa had apparently called Thomas “Dad.”
Dad whispered:
“Since your mother’s funeral?”
“No.”
“Then when?”
Vanessa hesitated.
“Before.”
“How long before?”
“A few months.”
Dad covered his mouth.
“Your mother knew?”
Another silence.
“Vanessa.”
“Yes.”
Dad stood abruptly.
“Your mother knew my brother was alive?”
“Yes.”
“And she didn’t tell me?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Thirty-seven years isn’t complicated!”
He pointed toward the door.
“My brother has been alive for thirty-seven years!”
Thomas spoke quietly from outside.
“Richard, there’s a reason.”
Dad opened the door again.
“Then give me one.”
Thomas looked at him.
“Your father.”
Dad froze.
Thomas stepped closer but remained outside.
“Dad told everyone I died because I discovered what he’d done.”
“What had he done?”
Thomas glanced at me.
Then toward the phone in my hand.
“Is Vanessa listening?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Vanessa suddenly said:
“Thomas, don’t.”
His expression hardened.
“You’ve had nine years.”
“Please.”
“Nine years to tell him.”
“I was trying to protect him.”
Thomas laughed bitterly.
“That’s what everyone in this family says when they’re hiding something.”
Dad opened the door wider.
“Come inside.”
“Dad—”
“It’s freezing.”
Thomas entered.
I locked the door behind him.
Nobody spoke as we returned to the kitchen.
Two brothers who had believed themselves separated by death sat across from each other at my table.
Dad stared at Thomas.
Thomas stared back.
Finally Dad asked:
“Why didn’t you contact me?”
Thomas looked down.
“At first, because I couldn’t.”
“Then?”
“Because I thought you were involved.”
Dad recoiled.
“Involved in what?”
Thomas looked at me.
Then at Dad.
“The money.”
“What money?”
“The money our father stole.”
Dad shook his head.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Thomas studied him.
Then apparently decided he believed him.
“Our father didn’t build Cole Manufacturing from nothing.”
Dad frowned.
“Of course he did.”
“No.”
“He started it in a rented warehouse.”
“With stolen money.”
Dad stared.
Thomas continued.
“In 1989, I was working on the company books. I found accounts that didn’t belong there.”
“What kind of accounts?”
“Money belonging to clients. Pension funds. Trust accounts.”
Dad’s face changed.
“That’s impossible.”
“I thought so too.”
Thomas leaned forward.
“Until I found the signatures.”
Dad whispered:
“Whose?”
“Mother’s.”
The room became very quiet.
Thomas continued.
“She helped him.”
Dad looked physically sick.
“Our parents?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
Thomas gave a humorless smile.
“In today’s money?”
He looked at me.
“Millions.”
My phone speaker crackled.
Vanessa whispered:
“Thomas, stop.”
He ignored her.
“I confronted Dad. Two days later, my car went off a bridge.”
Dad stared at him.
“You said accident.”
“I didn’t say accident.”
Dad’s face went white.
Thomas touched the scar near his temple.
“I survived.”
“Why did everyone think you were dead?”
“Because another car burned near the bottom of the ravine.”
Thomas looked down.
“There was a body.”
“Whose?”
“I still don’t know.”
Dad stared.
“Mother identified it as you?”
“She knew it wasn’t me.”
Dad stood.
“No.”
“Richard—”
“No.”
“She helped Dad make me disappear.”
Dad paced away.
“Our mother wouldn’t do that.”
“She did.”
“Why?”
“Because if I came back, everything would have collapsed.”
Thomas leaned forward.
“The company. The house. The accounts. Everything.”
Dad turned.
“Then why come back now?”
Thomas’s eyes moved toward me.
“Because it’s happening again.”
My stomach tightened.
“What is?”
“The money.”
Thomas reached into his coat.
He removed a flash drive.
Placed it on the table.
“Six months ago Vanessa contacted me.”
Dad stared at her name on the phone screen.
“Why?”
“She’d found some of the old records after your wife died.”
Dad frowned.
“Her mother.”
Thomas nodded.
“Apparently Evelyn had discovered something before she passed.”
Dad sat slowly.
“What?”
“Documents.”
“What documents?”
“Evidence that your father didn’t steal all the money.”
Dad stared.
Thomas continued.
“He hid some of it.”
“Where?”
“That’s what Vanessa wanted me to help find.”
Grant’s voice suddenly came through the phone.
“What money?”
We all froze.
Apparently he was still with Vanessa.
Thomas leaned toward the phone.
“You really don’t know, do you?”
Grant said:
“Know what?”
Vanessa screamed:
“Grant, give me the phone!”
There was rustling.
Then Grant:
“Tell me.”
Thomas looked at Dad.
“Roughly four million dollars disappeared before our father died.”
Nobody spoke.
Then Thomas added:
“That’s four million in 1989.”
My mind tried to calculate what that might mean today.
Thomas saved me the trouble.
“Depending on what happened to it, we could be talking about ten, fifteen, maybe twenty million now.”
Grant went silent.
Dad shook his head.
“This is insane.”
“I wish it were.”
“And Vanessa thinks she can find it?”
“She already found part of it.”
Dad’s eyes narrowed.
“How much?”
Thomas looked toward the phone.
“Ask her.”
Dad did.
“Vanessa?”
Nothing.
“How much did you find?”
Silence.
Then Grant’s voice:
“ANSWER HIM.”
Vanessa finally whispered:
“Eight hundred thousand.”
I stared at the phone.
Dad’s mouth opened.
Thomas nodded as if he’d expected it.
“Where is it?” Dad asked.
“I don’t have it.”
“Where is it?”
“I said I don’t have it!”
“Then who does?”
Vanessa began crying.
“I don’t know anymore.”
Thomas leaned forward.
“You’re lying.”
“No.”
“You’ve been lying since you contacted me.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Then explain.”
Vanessa’s voice trembled.
“I found an account.”
“What account?”
“Granddad’s.”
Thomas’s eyes narrowed.
“He died in 1997.”
“I know.”
“Then the account would’ve been frozen.”
“It wasn’t in his name.”
“Whose name?”
Vanessa stopped.
Dad suddenly looked at me.
Something in his expression frightened me.
“Vanessa.”
She didn’t answer.
Dad asked again.
“Whose name was on the account?”
Her answer came so quietly I almost missed it.
“Natalie’s.”
I stopped breathing.
“What?”
Thomas turned toward me.
Dad stared.
I laughed because the alternative was panic.
“That’s impossible.”
Vanessa said:
“No, it isn’t.”
“I was a child in 1989.”
“You were born in 1990.”
“Exactly.”
Vanessa didn’t answer.
Thomas suddenly looked alarmed.
“What did you say?”
Dad frowned.
“She was born in 1990.”
Thomas stared at me.
“What month?”
“March.”
Thomas stood.
His chair tipped backward.
Dad jumped.
“What?”
Thomas looked as though he’d seen another ghost.
“Natalie, what’s your birthday?”
“March eighteenth.”
Thomas whispered:
“No.”
My heart started pounding.
“What?”
He turned toward Dad.
“Richard, when did Evelyn tell you she was pregnant?”
Dad looked confused.
“Summer of ’89.”
Thomas shook his head.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No, Richard.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I saw Evelyn in October.”
Dad stared.
“October?”
“October 1989.”
“You were supposedly dead by then.”
“I know.”
Dad’s face changed.
Thomas continued.
“She wasn’t pregnant.”
My skin went cold.
“That’s impossible.”
Thomas looked at me.
“I saw her.”
Dad shook his head.
“Maybe she wasn’t showing.”
“Seven months pregnant?”
Nobody spoke.
Dad turned toward me.
I felt suddenly detached from my own body.
“Maybe she wore something loose.”
Thomas shook his head.
“We spent nearly an hour together.”
Dad stared.
“Why?”
“Because she was trying to help me leave.”
“Leave where?”
“The country.”
Thomas rubbed his face.
“She felt guilty about what our parents had done. She brought me cash and documents.”
Dad whispered:
“Why didn’t she tell me?”
“Because your father threatened you.”
Dad’s eyes filled with pain.
Thomas looked at me again.
“But Evelyn was not pregnant.”
I could barely breathe.
“Then how…”
Nobody answered.
Until Vanessa did.
“Natalie.”
Her voice sounded broken.
“I wanted to tell you.”
I grabbed the phone.
“Tell me what?”
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
Silence.
“VANESSA.”
She whispered:
“There’s something about your birth certificate.”
My hand tightened around the phone.
“What?”
“It isn’t the original.”
Dad stood.
“What the hell does that mean?”
Vanessa started crying.
“The certificate Dad has isn’t the first one.”
“How do you know?”
“Mom told me.”
“When?”
“Before she died.”
Dad looked devastated.
“What did your mother tell you?”
Vanessa inhaled.
“She said Natalie wasn’t born in March.”
My entire body went numb.
Dad stared at me.
Thomas stared at me.
I forced myself to speak.
“When was I born?”
Vanessa whispered:
“December.”
“December what?”
“I don’t know.”
“What year?”
She didn’t answer.
I shouted:
“WHAT YEAR?”
“1988.”
The room disappeared around me.
If Vanessa was telling the truth, I wasn’t thirty-six.
I was thirty-seven.
And more importantly—
I had been alive before Thomas supposedly died.
Dad sank into his chair.
“No.”
Thomas’s face had gone pale.
Dad looked at him.
Then at me.
Then back at Thomas.
And I understood what neither man wanted to say.
“No,” I whispered.
Thomas shook his head immediately.
“Don’t.”
Dad asked the question anyway.
“Thomas… did you have a child?”
Thomas closed his eyes.
My heartbeat became deafening.
Dad stood.
“Thomas.”
No answer.
“Did you have a daughter?”
Thomas slowly opened his eyes.
“Yes.”
Dad stopped moving.
I couldn’t breathe.
“When?”
Dad asked.
Thomas looked directly at me.
“December 1988.”
My knees almost gave out.
Dad grabbed the edge of the table.
“What happened to her?”
Thomas’s voice broke.
“I was told she died.”
Nobody moved.
Thomas stared at my face.
And suddenly his eyes weren’t studying a stranger anymore.
They were searching.
Comparing.
Remembering.
“My daughter had a birthmark.”
I instinctively touched my shoulder.
Thomas noticed.
His face crumpled.
“No…”
Dad turned toward me.
“Natalie?”
I stepped backward.
“Don’t.”
Thomas’s eyes remained on my shoulder.
“What shape?”
I didn’t answer.
“Natalie, please.”
My mouth had gone dry.
“A crescent.”
Thomas covered his mouth.
Dad whispered:
“Jesus Christ.”
I shook my head.
“No. Lots of people have birthmarks.”
Thomas’s eyes filled with tears.
“Left shoulder?”
I couldn’t answer.
Because it was.
He knew from my expression.
Thomas stumbled backward and sat down.
“My daughter’s was on her left shoulder.”
Dad turned away.
I felt like I might vomit.
My entire childhood suddenly became a collection of questions.
Why there were almost no photographs of Mom pregnant with me.
Why my baby album started when I was several months old.
Why Mom always changed the subject whenever Vanessa asked about my birth.
Why my birth certificate had been replaced when I was eleven because the “original was damaged.”
Dad turned toward Thomas.
“Who was the mother?”
Thomas didn’t answer.
“Thomas.”
His face tightened.
“I can’t tell you.”
Dad stared.
“You just told me Natalie might be your daughter.”
“I know.”
“Then tell her who her mother was.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
Thomas looked toward the phone.
Because Vanessa was making a strange sound.
Not crying.
Laughing.
A small, terrified laugh.
Thomas noticed too.
“Vanessa?”
She whispered:
“You still don’t know.”
Thomas froze.
“Know what?”
“You think Mom hid Natalie because Granddad wanted your baby gone.”
Thomas said nothing.
Vanessa continued.
“That’s not why.”
“Then why?”
“Because of who Natalie’s mother was.”
Dad gripped the table.
“Who?”
Vanessa didn’t answer.
Grant shouted:
“Just tell them!”
Vanessa began crying again.
Then we heard a car engine start.
Dad grabbed the phone.
“Where are you going?”
“I have to fix something.”
“Fix what?”
“The mistake I made yesterday.”
“What mistake?”
Vanessa didn’t answer.
Thomas suddenly looked at the flash drive.
“Richard.”
Dad turned.
Thomas held it up.
“Someone broke into Harold’s house for the envelope.”
“I know.”
“What if they weren’t looking for the envelope?”
Dad stared.
Thomas pointed toward the drive.
“What if they were looking for this?”
“What’s on it?”
“Copies of the original account records.”
Vanessa screamed through the phone:
“THOMAS, DON’T OPEN THAT DRIVE!”
Thomas froze.
Dad looked toward the speaker.
“Why?”
Vanessa was breathing hard.
“Because I wasn’t the first person who found the account.”
Thomas frowned.
“Who was?”
Vanessa said:
“Mom.”
Dad went pale.
“Your mother knew about it?”
“She knew everything.”
Dad’s expression hardened.
“Then why didn’t she tell me?”
Vanessa whispered:
“Because she was afraid of you.”
The words hit Dad like a slap.
“Of me?”
“No.”
Vanessa corrected herself.
“Not exactly you.”
Thomas suddenly understood something.
His face changed.
“Oh, God.”
I looked between them.
“What?”
Thomas grabbed the photograph of Vanessa beside the gray-haired man.
He pushed it toward Dad.
“Look at him again.”
Dad stared.
“That’s not me.”
“I know.”
“Then what?”
“Look at his right hand.”
Dad examined the picture.
I leaned closer.
The image was grainy, but the man’s right hand was visible beside his coat.
His smallest finger bent strangely inward.
Dad stopped breathing.
Thomas whispered:
“Remember?”
Dad’s chair scraped backward.
“No.”
“What?” I asked.
Neither answered.
“Dad, who is he?”
Dad’s lips trembled.
“My father had that finger.”
I stared at him.
“Granddad?”
“Broken when he was a boy. Never healed correctly.”
Thomas nodded.
“But Granddad died in 1997.”
Dad stared at the photograph.
“Yes.”
Thomas looked at him.
“Did you see his body?”
The question hung in the kitchen.
Dad’s face slowly changed.
“No.”
“Who identified him?”
Dad didn’t answer.
He didn’t need to.
Thomas already knew.
“Your mother?”
Dad whispered:
“Evelyn.”
My mother.
The woman who had apparently lied about Thomas.
The woman who had apparently lied about my birth.
The woman who had apparently known about millions of hidden dollars.
And now perhaps the woman who had lied about another death.
Dad grabbed his coat.
“Where are you going?”
“The address.”
Thomas stood.
“Richard, don’t.”
“You said our father’s old address is written on that photograph.”
“The property was sold decades ago.”
“I don’t care.”
Dad headed toward the door.
I followed.
Thomas followed me.
Then my phone buzzed.
A photograph from Vanessa.
I stopped walking.
It showed a small room.
Concrete walls.
One bare lightbulb.
A wooden table.
On the table sat an old metal cash box.
Beside it was today’s newspaper.
Dad stared at the image.
Another message arrived.
YOU WANT THE TRUTH?
COME ALONE.
Then an address appeared.
I compared it with the handwriting on the back of Thomas’s photograph.
Same address.
Dad reached for my phone.
Before he could take it, another message appeared.
This one wasn’t from Vanessa.
Unknown number.
There was no text.
Only a photograph.
I opened it.
And nearly dropped the phone.
The picture had been taken from outside my house.
Through my kitchen window.
Minutes earlier.
It showed Dad.
Thomas.
And me.
Someone had been watching us.
Then a message appeared beneath it.
VANESSA IS LYING.
A second message followed.
THOMAS IS LYING TOO.
Thomas stared at the screen.
Dad looked toward the window.
Then the third message arrived.
ASK THOMAS WHAT HAPPENED TO NATALIE’S REAL MOTHER.
Thomas went completely still.
I looked at him.
“Thomas?”
He said nothing.
“Who was she?”
His eyes dropped.
“Tell me.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re not ready.”
Something inside me snapped.
“I just found out my birthday might be fake, my mother may not be my mother, my uncle might actually be my father, my sister faked Dad’s death, and someone is photographing us through my window.”
I stepped closer.
“Stop deciding what I’m ready for.”
Thomas looked at Dad.
Dad said quietly:
“Tell her.”
Thomas closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, they were wet.
“Your mother’s name was Rebecca.”
The name meant nothing to me.
Until Dad whispered:
“Rebecca?”
Thomas nodded.
Dad looked horrified.
“No.”
I turned to him.
“You knew her?”
Dad didn’t answer.
“Dad?”
His voice broke.
“Rebecca wasn’t some stranger.”
Thomas looked away.
Dad stared at me as if seeing me for the first time.
“She lived with us.”
“Who was she?”
Dad swallowed.
“Your mother’s younger sister.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“My aunt?”
Dad nodded.
I stared at Thomas.
“You had a child with Mom’s sister?”
Thomas looked sick.
“We loved each other.”
“What happened to her?”
No answer.
“What happened to Rebecca?”
Thomas whispered:
“She disappeared.”
“When?”
“The night my car went off the bridge.”
I stopped breathing.
Dad slowly sat down.
Thomas continued.
“I spent thirty-seven years believing our father killed her.”
My phone buzzed again.
Unknown number.
One final photograph appeared.
An older woman standing beside a gas station.
The picture had been taken recently.
Very recently.
Her hair was silver.
Her face was lined with age.
But her eyes—
I knew those eyes.
Because I saw them every morning in the mirror.
Beneath the photograph were five words.
REBECCA COLE IS STILL ALIVE.
I stared at the screen until the letters blurred.
Then the phone rang.
Unknown number.
Nobody moved.
It rang again.
Thomas whispered:
“Don’t answer.”
Dad whispered:
“Answer it.”
I pressed the button.
“Hello?”
For several seconds, there was only breathing.
Then a woman’s voice spoke.
Older.
Shaking.
Terrified.
“Natalie?”
My knees weakened.
“Who is this?”
The woman began crying.
Then she said:
“My name is Rebecca.”
Thomas grabbed the edge of the table.
I couldn’t speak.
Rebecca continued:
“And before you go anywhere with Thomas, there’s something you need to know about the night you were born.”
Thomas shook his head.
“Hang up.”
I stepped away from him.
Rebecca heard his voice.
Her breathing stopped.
“He’s there?”
“Yes.”
“Natalie, get away from him.”
Thomas stood.
“Rebecca!”
The woman screamed.
“DO NOT TRUST HIM!”
I backed toward the hallway.
Dad moved between Thomas and me.
Thomas raised both hands.
“Richard, I can explain.”
Rebecca was sobbing now.
Then she said the sentence that turned every secret we’d uncovered that morning upside down.
“Thomas didn’t lose you, Natalie.”
I pressed the phone tighter against my ear.
“What does that mean?”
Rebecca took a trembling breath.
“He was the one who gave you away.”
Thomas’s face went white.
And before I could ask another question, someone began pounding violently on my front door.
Not three slow knocks this time.
Desperate pounding.
Then Vanessa screamed from the other side.
“NATALIE! DON’T LISTEN TO HER! OPEN THE DOOR!”
I stared at Thomas.
Dad stared at the entrance.
Rebecca was crying through my phone.
And Vanessa screamed again.
“OPEN THE DOOR! HE FOUND ME!”
Dad rushed toward the hallway.
I followed.
“Who found you?” I shouted.
Vanessa answered from the other side.
But her reply was nearly drowned out by the sound of a car accelerating somewhere outside.
“The man pretending to be Grandpa!”
Then my security monitor went black.
And every light in my house went out.
One Comment on “PART 3: My sister called at 6:30 a.m. and said, “Dad died last night.” I looked across the kitchen—Dad was sitting three feet away, drinking my coffee and eating my bacon.”