Chapter 5: Someone Had Been Watching Us
My father locked the front door twice when we returned home.
Then he checked the back entrance, the garage, and every window on the ground floor.
I followed him from room to room, clutching my phone.
“Dad, do you think someone was in the house?””
“I don't know.””
“Should we call the police?””
“We will if there's evidence of an unauthorized entry. First, I want to know whether Linda has seen those messages.””
He stopped near the stairs.
“Did you tell anyone about the envelope?””
“No.””
“Anyone at school? Any friends?””
I shook my head.
“Just you.””
He studied my face, searching for something.
“I believe you, Jasmine.””
The words were so unexpected that I nearly cried.
For years, I'd dreamed of hearing him say them.
But the relief lasted only a moment.
Because if Dad believed me now, it meant he finally understood how badly things had gone wrong.
And that hurt almost as much as being disbelieved.
“Where's Linda?”” I asked.
“She said she was going to her sister's.””
“Do you believe her?””
“No.””
He said it without hesitation.
That frightened me.
My father had spent three years defending Linda. He'd dismissed my complaints, accepted her explanations, and told me to give her a chance.
Now he looked at the empty hallway as though he expected her to emerge from the shadows.
His phone rang.
The caller ID showed Linda's name.
He answered and put it on speaker.
“David,” she said, her voice trembling.
“I've been waiting for you to call.””
“Where are you?””
“At my sister's.””
“Which sister?””
A pause.
“Rebecca.””
Dad glanced at me.
“Rebecca lives in Ohio.””
“She has a house here, too.””
“No, she doesn't.””
Silence.
Then Linda sighed.
“Why are you interrogating me?””
“Because someone sent us a photograph taken inside our house while we were at the attorney's office.””
“What photograph?””
“Don't play games with me.””
“I don't know what you're talking about!””
Dad's voice sharpened.
“Have you been inside the house since we left?””
“No!””
“Has anyone else had a key?””
“I don't know, David. The housekeeper, perhaps. The gardener. You have a list of people who come and go.””
“Then tell me who had access to the living room.””
Linda went quiet.
I heard the faint sound of a door closing on her end.
When she spoke again, her voice had changed.
“David, I think we need to talk about Jasmine.””
“We're talking about the house.””
“Your daughter is in danger.””
My stomach tightened.
Dad looked directly at me.
“From whom?””
“From the people your first wife was involved with.””
“Name them.””
“I can't.””
“Then stop making accusations.””
“I'm trying to protect you!””
“No. You're trying to frighten me into ignoring evidence.””
Linda's breathing grew ragged.
“You have no idea what will happen if you keep digging. Your wife made enemies. Powerful people. People who don't care that she's dead.””
Dad's grip tightened around the phone.
“Then why didn't you tell me?””
“Because I promised Eleanor I wouldn't.””
The room went silent.
Dad's expression changed.
“You promised Eleanor what?””
Linda seemed to realize she'd said too much.
“I have to go.””
“Linda—”
The call ended.
Dad stared at the phone.
I whispered, “She knew Mom.””
He looked at me.
“She knew more than she told me.””
That evening, Margaret arranged for a locksmith to inspect the exterior doors and advised us to report the threatening messages. We saved the photographs and messages without replying. Dad also asked the housekeeper, Mrs. Harris, whether she'd noticed anything unusual.
She arrived the following morning, carrying her handbag against her chest.
Mrs. Harris had worked for our family since before Mom became ill. She was a quiet woman who always wore her hair in a neat bun and remembered every birthday in the household.
When Dad showed her the photograph, her face went white.
“Oh, Mr. Mitchell.””
“You recognize something?””
She stared at the image.
“The curtains.””
“What about them?””
“They were tied back that way yesterday morning. I changed them before I left.””
Dad leaned forward.
“So the photograph was taken yesterday?””
“Or someone copied an older photograph,” she replied.
“But I don't think so.””
She pointed at the coffee table.
“The blue vase was on the other side of the room yesterday. I moved it because the afternoon sun was fading the flowers.””
Dad stood.
“Who was in the house after you left?””
“No one was supposed to be.””
“Was Linda here?””
Mrs. Harris hesitated.
“I saw her car in the driveway when I returned for my umbrella.””
“When was this?””
“Yesterday, around four.””
My heart began pounding.
Dad's face hardened.
“Why didn't you tell me?””
“I didn't want to interfere in your marriage, sir.””
“Did you see her enter the house?””
“No. But when I came back, I heard voices upstairs.””
“Whose voices?””
Mrs. Harris looked at me.
“Yours, dear.””
I frowned.
“I was at school yesterday afternoon.””
“I know. That's why I thought I was mistaken.””
She reached into her handbag.
“There was something else.””
She pulled out a small brass key.
“I found this under the front porch mat when I came back for my umbrella. It doesn't belong to any of the doors I use.””
Dad took it.
“Where did you find it exactly?””
“Beside the flowerpot.””
I recognized the key immediately.
It belonged to Mom's old writing desk.
The desk had been moved into the basement after Linda redecorated the living room. I'd assumed she'd donated it.
“Dad,” I whispered.
“That's Mom's desk key.””
He looked at Mrs. Harris.
“Can you show me where the desk is?””
She nodded.
We went downstairs together.
The basement smelled of dust, old cardboard, and damp concrete. A single lightbulb swung above the storage shelves. Boxes of Christmas decorations lined one wall, and an old treadmill stood beneath a sheet.
But the desk wasn't there.
Mrs. Harris looked confused.
“It was here last month.””
Dad turned toward the empty space.
“Where did it go?””
“I don't know.””
I stepped closer to the wall.
There was a rectangular outline in the dust where the desk had stood.
Someone had moved it recently.
Then I noticed a thin strip of paper caught beneath a cardboard box.
I pulled it free.
It was a receipt from a self-storage company.
The date was two days earlier.
The account holder was listed as Linda Mitchell.
Dad took the receipt from my hand.
“What's at this facility?””
“Storage units,” I said.
He read the address.
It was less than fifteen minutes from our house.
Margaret advised us not to enter any private unit or confront anyone. She contacted the appropriate authorities and helped arrange a lawful way to document what belonged to our family.
By late afternoon, Dad had confirmation that the unit was registered to Linda.
The facility manager agreed to cooperate with the proper authorities.
We waited outside the office while the paperwork was checked.
Dad paced beneath a fluorescent light.
“Three years,” he muttered.
“Three years, and I didn't see any of this.””
I sat beside him.
“You wanted to believe her.””
He stopped pacing.
“I wanted my family back.””
I looked at him.
“So did I.””
His face crumpled.
He sat beside me and covered his eyes with one hand.
“Your mother trusted me to protect you.””
“You did protect me.””
“No, Jasmine. I protected the story I wanted to believe.””
I had no answer.
A uniformed officer approached us and said the authorized inspection could proceed.
Inside the storage unit, the first thing we saw was Mom's writing desk.
It stood against the far wall, its drawers carefully labeled.
Beside it were boxes of documents, several old handbags, and a framed photograph of my mother that Linda had removed from our hallway.
Dad stopped breathing for a moment.
He walked toward the photograph and lifted it carefully.
“Eleanor,” he whispered.
Then he turned to the desk.
One drawer was locked.
The brass key from Mrs. Harris fit perfectly.
Inside were several folders, a small cassette recorder, and a black leather notebook.
The notebook my mother had hidden.
I reached toward it, but Dad gently stopped me.
“Let the officer document everything first.””
We waited while photographs were taken and the contents were inventoried.
Then the officer opened the notebook to the first page.
My mother's handwriting covered it.
Dates. Names. Account numbers.
And a sentence written in red ink.
*If Linda succeeds, David will lose everything—and Jasmine will be blamed.*
Dad gripped the edge of the desk.
The next page contained a list of bank transfers.
The final entry was dated two days before Mom died.
Beside it, she'd written a name.
Not Linda's.
Not my father's.
A name I'd never seen before.
*Thomas Reed.*
Below it was a phone number.
May you like
And beneath that, in smaller handwriting, were six words that made my father stumble backward.
The man who knows your real history.
