Chapter 9: The Person Behind Every Lie
I stared at the final page until the words stopped looking like words.
*Charles Ashcombe’s final accusation was against the person I trusted most.*
My mind immediately searched for an answer.
Genevieve.
Adrian.
My mother.
Julian.
Every person who had lied to me.
Every person who had hidden something.
But the name beneath my father’s message was not there.
The page had been torn.
Someone had removed the only part that mattered.
They had left the accusation.
They had left the fear.
But they had taken the truth.
“Marcus.””
He stepped closer.
“Yes, sir?””
“Who found this?””
“No one.””
“That’s impossible.””
“I checked the cameras.””
“And?””
His expression changed.
“There’s a blind spot.””
I looked at him.
“A blind spot?””
“Yes.””
“On my property?””
Marcus nodded slowly.
“One camera was disabled for exactly seven minutes.””
My stomach tightened.
“By who?””
“We’re checking.””
I closed the folder.
“No.””
Marcus looked confused.
“What?””
“Don’t check.””
“Sir?””
“Let them think we don’t know.””
Because suddenly I understood something.
Someone had left this folder for me intentionally.
They wanted me to find it.
They wanted me to panic.
They wanted me to start accusing people.
And if I reacted emotionally, they would know exactly how much information I had.
“Marcus.””
“Yes?””
“From this moment forward, nobody enters this property without my approval.””
He nodded.
“And Mr. Ashcombe?””
I looked at him.
“There’s something else.””
“What?””
“The person who disabled the camera knew the system.””
My expression hardened.
“Meaning?””
“They had inside knowledge.””
Of course.
Another person who knew my home.
My family.
My weaknesses.
I returned inside with the folder hidden under my jacket.
Genevieve was still in the living room.
She looked at my face and immediately knew something had happened.
“What did you find?””
I didn’t answer.
Because I was watching her.
Not because I thought she was guilty.
Because I was finally learning to observe instead of believe.
“What?””
Her voice became nervous.
“You said Adrian contacted you.””
“Yes.””
“When exactly?””
She hesitated.
“Yesterday.””
“Before or after I came home?””
Her expression changed.
“Before.””
“How long before?””
“An hour.””
I nodded slowly.
“Interesting.””
“What does that mean?””
“It means he knew something was happening before anyone should have known.””
Genevieve looked down.
“Dorian…”
“Did he know I was returning early?””
“I don’t know.””
“You need to think.””
She closed her eyes.
Then whispered:
“Yes.””
My chest tightened.
“What?””
“He asked if you had changed your flight.””
I stared at her.
“And you told him?””
“No.””
“Then how did he know?””
She didn’t answer.
Because neither of us knew.
My phone rang.
Rebecca.
I answered immediately.
“Dorian.””
“Tell me you found something.””
“I did.””
“About Julian?””
“No.””
Her tone changed.
“Then what?””
“I found a document from my father.””
Silence.
“Rebecca?””
“Where did you get it?””
“Someone left it at the gate.””
“That’s impossible.””
“Why?””
“Because the documents from that period were sealed.””
“By who?””
Another pause.
Then:
“Your mother.””
I looked toward the window.
Of course.
“Rebecca, I need you to tell me something.””
“What?””
“If my father believed someone was responsible for his death, why would he write that my mother was protecting me?””
She became quiet.
Then:
“Because maybe she was.””
I frowned.
“You think she’s innocent?””
“I think we have been assuming the wrong conflict.””
“What do you mean?””
“I think everyone thought the battle was about money.””
“And?””
“It may have been about information.””
I looked at the folder.
“Someone has spent fifteen years trying to keep a secret buried.””
“Yes.””
“And now they’re afraid.””
“Yes.””
“Why now?””
Rebecca didn’t answer.
Because the question was obvious.
“Because of my marriage.””
“Exactly.””
I looked toward the stairs.
Toward my sons.
Genevieve had been brought into my life at the exact moment someone needed access.
A marriage.
A legal connection.
A pathway into my family.
But there was still one question.
Who started it?
And why?
“Rebecca.””
“Yes?””
“Find everything about Genevieve’s father.””
“You already know he’s alive?””
“No.””
I looked at Genevieve.
She was staring at me.
Waiting.
“Find out who he really is.””
Rebecca paused.
“Dorian…”
“What?””
“I think I already know.””
My heart sank.
“What?””
“Genevieve’s father’s name appears in your father’s old business records.””
I froze.
“What name?””
“Thomas Sutter.””
The room went silent.
Genevieve’s last name.
Her father.
My father’s records.
All connected.
“How?””
“I’m sending you the file.””
The message arrived seconds later.
I opened it.
A scanned document.
A business partnership agreement.
Charles Ashcombe.
Thomas Sutter.
My eyes moved down.
Then stopped.
Because the date was twenty years ago.
Long before Genevieve was born.
And the final page contained a handwritten note from my father.
*Thomas knows about Julian.*
I looked up.
Genevieve was watching me.
“What is it?””
I didn’t answer.
“Dorian?””
I turned the screen toward her.
Her face changed.
Not confusion.
Recognition.
“You know him.””
Her eyes filled with fear.
“No.””
“Yes.””
She shook her head.
“I didn’t know.””
“But you recognize the name.””
She stood.
“I know who he is.””
“Who?””
She looked terrified.
“My father’s business partner.””
I stared at her.
“You told me your father was a small business owner.””
“He was.””
“Then why is he in my father’s private records?””
She stepped back.
“I don’t know.””
“You’re lying.””
“I’m not!””
Her voice broke.
“I swear.””
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then she whispered:
“He disappeared when I was young.””
“Your father?””
“Yes.””
“Why?””
She shook her head.
“My mother said he was running from something.””
“What something?””
“I don’t know.””
The pieces were becoming unbearable.
Genevieve’s father.
My father.
Julian.
The trust.
The marriage.
Everything had roots decades deep.
Then my phone buzzed.
A message.
From an unknown number.
One sentence.
*Stop digging, Dorian. Your father died because he refused to stop.*
I showed it to Rebecca.
Then another message arrived.
*Ask your mother what happened the night Charles Ashcombe died.*
I looked at Genevieve.
She saw the message.
Her face went pale.
“Dorian…”
“What?””
“I know that number.””
My entire body went still.
“What did you say?””
She looked at her phone.
Then mine.
“I know who sent that.””
“Who?””
Her lips trembled.
“The person who raised me.””
I stepped closer.
“Your father?””
She nodded.
“But that’s impossible.””
“Why?””
“Because he’s dead.””
The room became silent.
“What?””
Genevieve looked at me.
“My father died fifteen years ago.””
I looked at the message.
At the number.
At the connection that made no sense.
Then Rebecca called.
I answered.
“Dorian.””
“Rebecca, you need to listen.””
Her voice sounded shaken.
“I know.””
“How?””
“Because I just received the same message.””
My blood ran cold.
“What?””
“From the same number.””
“Who sent it?””
A pause.
Then:
“The number belongs to a person who officially died fifteen years ago.””
I looked at Genevieve.
Her face had gone completely white.
“Who?””
Rebecca whispered:
“Thomas Sutter.””
I couldn’t breathe.
Because the impossible had just become real.
The man who supposedly died years ago was sending threats.
And somehow…
He knew everything.
Before I could speak, another message appeared.
This time, it contained a photograph.
An old photograph.
My father.
My mother.
Julian.
And one more person standing behind them.
A young Thomas Sutter.
But that wasn’t what made my blood run cold.
It was the child standing beside him.
A child I recognized.
A child whose face looked exactly like Genevieve.
May you like
The message beneath the photograph contained only six words.
*Ask Genevieve who her mother was.*
