Chapter 5 - THE MAN IN THE DARK ROOM
Alexander stared at the photograph.
His entire body seemed to stop functioning.
“That's him.”
His voice was barely audible.
“My brother.”
I looked at the screen.
Jonathan's face was bruised.
One eye swollen.
His hands appeared tied behind a chair.
He was alive.
After six years.
Alive.
“Can we trace the number?” I asked.
One of Alexander's security men immediately pulled out his phone.
“Already trying.”
My mother stood slowly.
“I told you he was dangerous.”
Alexander looked at her.
“Who?”
“Jonathan.”
I turned.
“You just said he was kidnapped.”
“He was.”
“Then why call him dangerous?”
My mother looked terrified.
“Because he knows what happened.”
“What happened?”
She shook her head.
“I can't.”
Alexander stepped closer.
“You're going to tell us.”
My mother looked at him.
“Your brother wasn't kidnapped.”
Alexander froze.
“He was taken.”
“By whom?”
“Your father.”
The room seemed to lose all oxygen.
Alexander stared at her.
“Why?”
“Because Jonathan found out about the money.”
“What money?”
“The money your father believed my husband had stolen.”
Alexander shook his head.
“My father accused your husband of stealing?”
“No.”
My mother whispered:
“Your father knew the money was stolen by someone else.”
“Who?”
She looked at me.
“Claire's father.”
Everything went silent.
I felt like I'd been struck.
My father had stolen from Victor Blackwell.
Victor had discovered it.
Jonathan had discovered it.
And then Jonathan disappeared.
But that still didn't explain Alexander.
“Why did your father blame Jonathan?”
My mother closed her eyes.
“Because Jonathan wanted to tell the police.”
Alexander's expression changed.
“So my father locked him away?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“I don't know.”
“Mom.”
My mother's eyes widened.
She looked at me.
“Don't call me that right now.”
The words hurt more than they should have.
She continued.
“I helped Jonathan escape.”
Alexander's head snapped toward her.
“You did what?”
“Six years ago. The night of the warehouse shooting.”
“The photograph.”
“Yes.”
“Who shot my father?”
My mother hesitated.
“Your father.”
Alexander's eyes hardened.
“My father shot Victor?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Victor confronted him.”
Alexander stared at the floor.
“And then?”
“Jonathan tried to stop him.”
“And my father?”
“He shot Jonathan.”
I covered my mouth.
“So Jonathan wasn't killed.”
“No.”
“He survived.”
“Yes.”
“And your family hid him.”
My mother nodded.
“Your father told everyone he had died.”
Alexander whispered:
“And you helped keep the secret.”
“I had no choice.”
“There is always a choice.”
My mother looked at me.
“Not when your husband threatens to kill your daughter.”
I froze.
Alexander turned sharply.
“What did you say?”
My mother pointed at him.
“Your father told us that if we ever spoke, Claire would disappear.”
Alexander's face went cold.
“My father is dead.”
“Yes.”
“Then who sent the photograph?”
My mother didn't answer.
My security team member suddenly looked up.
“We found the signal.”
Alexander turned.
“Where?”
“Abandoned textile mill. About twenty-three miles north.”
He showed us a map.
Alexander grabbed his coat.
“I’m going.”
“So am I.”
“No.”
“I'm your wife.”
“That is exactly why you're staying.”
I stepped in front of him.
“You've lied to me for six years.”
He stopped.
“I deserve the truth.”
His eyes softened.
“I know.”
“Then don't leave me behind.”
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Finally, he nodded.
“Stay beside me.”
We drove through the rain.
The mill had been abandoned for years.
Broken windows.
Rusting machinery.
Dark hallways.
The air smelled of oil, wet concrete, and decay.
We found the room from the photograph.
Empty.
A chair.
A rope.
Blood on the floor.
But no Jonathan.
Then my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
“Hello?”
A man's voice came through.
“You should never have married Alexander.”
“Who are you?”
“You want to know what happened six years ago?”
“Yes.”
“Then ask your husband what he did the night Jonathan disappeared.”
I looked at Alexander.
He stared back at me.
The caller continued.
“Ask him why he was at the warehouse.”
My heart stopped.
Alexander stepped closer.
“Who is this?”
The caller laughed.
“You're still protecting her.”
Then the line went dead.
I looked at Alexander.
“You were there?”
He didn't answer.
“Alexander.”
He closed his eyes.
“Yes.”
“You were at the warehouse?”
“Yes.”
“What did you do?”
He looked at me.
“I found Jonathan.”
“And?”
“I tried to save him.”
“Did you?”
His voice cracked.
“No.”
A sound came from behind us.
We turned.
A projector flickered to life on the far wall.
A video began playing.
Six years earlier.
The warehouse.
My father.
Victor Blackwell.
Jonathan.
And then—
Alexander.
Standing in the doorway.
I watched my younger husband walk toward his brother.
Then the screen went black.
A final sentence appeared:
May you like
YOU HAVE ONLY SEEN HALF OF THE VIDEO.
:::
