Chapter 3 - Jake Had Been Given a Locked Box by My Dead Father When He Was Fifteen—and Rebecca Had Spent Four Years Trying to Get It BackI had a dead father.
A dead best friend.
A missing rival.
And apparently a son carrying a secret box powerful enough to make seventeen people beat him on Christmas morning.
The box was in my compound.
Jake's room.
Bottom drawer.
Behind old baseball gloves.
It was small.
Black metal.
No visible lock.
No handle.
Just one symbol.
The same symbol I'd seen in the photograph.
I touched it.
Nothing.
I brought in my best cryptographer.
Nothing.
My oldest safe specialist.
Nothing.
Then Jake woke.
He was still weak.
But conscious.
I brought the box to his bedside.
His eyes widened.
“You found it.”
“Yes.”
“Don't open it.”
“Why?”
“Grandpa told me.”
“Your grandfather has been dead for years.”
“I know.”
“Then why listen to him?”
“Because he knew Mom was scared.”
I sat down.
“Start from the beginning.”
Jake took a breath.
“When I was fifteen, Grandpa came to my school.”
I froze.
“My father?”
He nodded.
“He said he'd been watching me.”
“How?”
“Through someone.”
“Who?”
He wouldn't say.
“What did he give you?”
“The box.”
“Why?”
“He said one day I'd need it.”
“Did he tell you what was inside?”
“No.”
“Did Mom know?”
Jake nodded.
“She found out.”
“That day?”
“No.”
“Then when?”
“When I was sixteen.”
“What happened?”
“She asked me for it.”
“Why?”
“She said it belonged to the family.”
I looked at him.
“And you refused.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Grandpa told me not to trust her.”
I stared.
Jake closed his eyes.
“Dad, I know that sounds bad.”
“No.”
“It does.”
“You were fifteen.”
“I know.”
“I should have been there.”
He smiled faintly.
“You were working.”
I looked away.
That hurt.
He had been protecting me without my knowledge.
“What happened after?”
“Mom stopped asking.”
“Until this Christmas.”
“Yes.”
“Who else knew?”
“Elias.”
My blood went cold.
“How?”
“He came to my school once.”
“What did he say?”
“That my father had stolen something.”
I frowned.
“I stole something?”
“He didn't say from whom.”
I looked at the box again.
“Did you ever try to open it?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Grandpa said the wrong person opening it would activate something.”
I didn't like that.
“What?”
Jake shrugged.
“I never asked.”
I brought in the best specialists.
Nothing worked.
Finally, one of my older men noticed the symbol.
“This isn't a lock.”
“What is it?”
“A signature.”
“Whose?”
“Your father's.”
That night, I remembered something.
When I was eighteen, my father had shown me the same symbol.
He had said:
“Never trust what people say belongs to the family.”
At the time, I thought he was talking about money.
Maybe he wasn't.
I called my uncle.
He didn't answer.
I called another retired family member.
He hung up.
That frightened me.
Then the box opened.
No one had touched it.
The lid simply unlocked.
Inside was a key.
A photograph.
And a letter.
My father's handwriting.
Andrew, if Jake has this, I failed to protect both of you.
I stared.
The next line:
Rebecca is not the enemy.
I froze.
Then:
Elias is alive.
Another line:
He is protecting the boy because I asked him to.
I couldn't breathe.
The final sentence was simple.
Find the house where I buried the truth.
I looked at Jake.
He was sleeping.
I looked at Rebecca.
May you like
She was sitting outside the room under guard.
And for the first time, I realized I might have spent nineteen years hating the wrong people.
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