Richard opened another folder.
“Jonathan Ashford created a trust for you.”
“How much?”
“That isn’t the important part.”
“Then what is?”
“The conditions.”
He handed me the document.
I read it.
The trust had been created when I was six.
It could only be accessed by me after I turned eighteen.
But there was another condition.
The beneficiary must be located and independently verified.
I looked up.
“Why?”
“Because your father believed someone might try to impersonate you.”
I laughed nervously.
“This is insane.”
Richard didn’t smile.
“There is more.”
He pointed to the final page.
“Your father named a guardian.”
I read the name.
Denise Bennett.
My mother.
I stared at it.
“She was supposed to protect me?”
“Yes.”
“But she didn’t.”
Richard nodded.
“That is what we’re trying to establish.”
I looked at the parking lot.
My parents’ car was long gone.
For eighteen years, I had believed they were simply cold.
Now I wondered if they had been hiding something much worse.
Part 6 — The House
Richard drove me to an address outside Boston.
It was a large old house behind iron gates.
“Where are we?”
“Your father’s house.”
I stared at it.
“I’ve never been here.”
“I know.”
We walked inside.
The air smelled like cedar and old paper.
Richard led me upstairs.
At the end of the hallway was a small bedroom.
He opened the door.
I froze.
The walls were painted pale purple.
A wooden shelf held children’s books.
A stuffed rabbit sat on the bed.
And on the desk were dozens of drawings.
I walked toward them.
They were mine.
Or copies of mine.
“Where did these come from?”
“Your father kept everything.”
I picked up one.
It showed a little girl holding hands with a man.
Underneath, in childish handwriting:
Me and Daddy.
I began crying.
“I don’t remember drawing this.”
Richard stood quietly behind me.
Then I noticed a photograph on the desk.
My father was holding me.
I was laughing.
He was laughing too.
On the back was a date.
Three days before I disappeared.
I looked at Richard.
“Disappeared?”
He nodded.
“You weren’t taken from him.”
“What?”
“You disappeared from his home.”
I stared at him.
“What happened?”
Richard’s voice lowered.
“You were six years old.”
“And?”
“Your father came home from work.”
“He found the house empty.”
I felt dizzy.
“Where was my mother?”
“Gone.”
“And me?”
“Gone.”
I whispered,
“Who took me?”
Richard looked at me.
“We believe it was your mother.”
Part 7 — The Recording
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