Part18 : MY NINETEEN-YEAR-OLD GRANDSON

I couldn’t speak.

“My husband’s brother?”

Margaret repeated the words carefully.

“That’s what Victor claims.”

“But my husband was an only child.”

“I know.”

“Then someone is lying.”

“Probably.”

I looked at Caleb.

He had heard everything.

“Grandma,” he said quietly, “what if Grandpa had another family?”

The question landed harder than anything else that night.

My husband had always been private about his childhood.

He rarely spoke about his parents.

He never talked about relatives.

Whenever I asked, he’d simply say, “There isn’t anyone left.”

I had accepted that answer.

For twenty years, I had never questioned it.

Now I wondered what else I had never questioned.

I called Margaret back.

“Take me to Victor.”

“Evelyn—”

“Please.”

There was a long pause.

“Fine. But you’re not going alone.”

An hour later, we arrived at the hospital.

Victor was lying in a guarded room.

He looked pale, but he was conscious.

When he saw me, he tried to sit up.

“Don’t,” I said.

He smiled weakly.

“You came.”

“I want answers.”

“You deserve them.”

I stepped closer.

“You said my husband had a brother.”

Victor nodded.

“He did.”

“What was his name?”

“Thomas.”

I stared at him.

“My husband never mentioned anyone named Thomas.”

“Because Thomas disappeared when they were young.”

“Where did he go?”

Victor looked toward the window.

“Prison.”

My stomach tightened.

“For what?”

“Murder.”

I shook my head.

“No.”

“He was convicted when he was twenty-three.”

“Whose murder?”

Victor looked at me.

“His business partner’s.”

Silence filled the room.

I suddenly understood why my husband had never spoken about his childhood.

He hadn’t been hiding a brother.

He had been hiding a family tragedy.

“What happened to Thomas?”

“He was released years later.”

“Where is he now?”

Victor hesitated.

“We don’t know.”

Margaret stepped forward.

“Then how can you say he ordered the attack?”

Victor reached beneath his pillow and pulled out a photograph.

He handed it to me.

I looked down.

An older man stood beside a black car.

His face was thinner.

His hair was gray.

But I recognized the eyes.

I’d seen them once before.

At my husband’s funeral.

A man had stood at the back of the church.

He never approached me.

He never spoke.

He simply watched.

I had assumed he was a stranger.

Now I knew.

“Thomas,” I whispered.

Victor nodded.

“He came to the funeral.”

“Why?”

“To see whether you had the box.”

I felt a chill.

“He knew about it?”

“He knew your husband had hidden something.”

“Then why didn’t he take it?”

Victor looked at me.

“Because he didn’t know where it was.”

I thought about the wooden box.

Caleb had carried it for years.

Daniel had taken it.

Arthur had searched for it.

And somehow, after twenty years, it had finally returned to me.

Then Victor said something that made my blood run cold.

“Thomas isn’t looking for the money anymore.”

“Then what does he want?”

Victor’s expression hardened.

“He wants you.”

I stared at him.

“Why?”

“Because your husband left one final piece of evidence.”

“What evidence?”

Victor leaned closer.

“A recording.”

“What recording?”

“The night your husband died.”

My heart stopped.

“You’re saying someone recorded his death?”

“Yes.”

“Who has it?”

Victor looked toward the door.

“Thomas.”

Suddenly, the hospital lights flickered.

Once.

Twice.

Then the room went dark.

A second later, every alarm in the corridor began screaming.

Victor grabbed my wrist.

“Don’t move.”

From somewhere outside the room came the sound of running footsteps.

Then a man’s voice.

Calm.

Close.

“Evelyn?”

I knew that voice.

I had heard it twenty years ago.

At my husband’s funeral.

The door handle began to turn.

And Victor whispered:

“That’s Thomas.”

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