The snow was falling thickly now.

And suddenly I noticed something I hadn’t seen before.

Across the street, where the car had been parked earlier, there were fresh tire tracks.

But there were two sets.

One belonged to the courier.

The other led away from my house.

And beside the second set of tracks were footprints.

Someone had been standing in the snow.

Watching my house.

Watching me.

I locked the front door.

Then the back door.

Then I checked every window.

When I returned to the kitchen, my phone lit up.

A message from an unknown number.

No name.

No profile picture.

Just one sentence.

You should have left for Telluride, Raymond.

I stared at it.

Another message appeared.

Because now they know you found the letter.

# Part 3 — The Name Beneath the Snow

For several seconds, I didn’t move.

The message remained on my screen.

You should have left for Telluride, Raymond.

Then another appeared.

Because now they know you found the letter.

I read both messages again.

And again.

My first instinct was to call Preston.

I didn’t.

Three years earlier, I might have.

I would have called him and asked what was happening. I would have listened to his explanation. I would have convinced myself that there had to be some innocent reason for everything.

But that man was gone.

Or perhaps he had never really existed.

Perhaps I had simply spent decades seeing the son I wanted instead of the man he had become.

My phone rang.

Julian.

I answered immediately.

“Are you still there?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Don’t open the door for anyone.”

“I won’t.”

“I’m ten minutes away.”

I looked through the curtains.

The street was empty.

“Julian?”

“Yes?”

“Did Eleanor ever mention a name?”

“What name?”

“Someone connected to the company.”

There was a pause.

“Which company?”

“Hale Restoration Holdings.”

This time, Julian didn’t answer immediately.

When he finally spoke, his voice was different.

Careful.

“Where did you see that name?”

“Eleanor’s letter.”

“Raymond, I need you to listen to me.”

“I’m listening.”

“Do not search for that company yourself.”

“Why?”

“Because it isn’t really a restoration company.”

I felt my stomach tighten.

“What is it?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“You’ve known about it for three years.”

“I knew it existed. I didn’t know what was behind it.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I know.”

I heard his car door shut.

“I’m coming inside,” he said. “We’ll talk when I’m there.”

The call ended.

I stood in the kitchen with the phone still in my hand.

Then I heard something.

A soft sound.

From upstairs.

A floorboard creaking.

I froze.

The house had been silent when I checked it.

I reached for the heavy fireplace poker beside the kitchen entrance.

“Who’s there?”

Nothing.

I waited.

Another creak.

This time, unmistakably from the second floor.

I didn’t call out again.

I moved toward the stairs.

Halfway up, I stopped.

The hallway was dark.

At the end of it was our bedroom.

The door was open.

I knew I had closed it.

I was certain.

I climbed the remaining steps.

My heart was pounding so hard that I could hear it.

The bedroom looked untouched.

The bed was made.

Eleanor’s dresser remained exactly where it had been for thirty-seven years.

The painting above the dresser hung straight.

But the wall safe was open.

I hadn’t opened it since discovering the missing jewelry.

Now the door stood several inches wide.

I approached slowly.

Inside, the deed was gone.

I stared at the empty compartment.

The deed.

The original property deed.

The one Julian had told me was now the most important document in the house.

I stepped backward.

Then I saw something on the floor.

A small piece of white paper.

I picked it up.

Three words were written on it.

Ask about Daniel.

I had no idea who Daniel was.

Then I heard a car horn outside.

I ran to the window.

Julian’s sedan was pulling into the driveway.

I hurried downstairs.

When I opened the door, Julian was already walking toward me.

He didn’t say hello.

He looked past me into the house.

“Did someone come inside?”

“I don’t know.”

“What happened?”

“The deed is gone.”

His expression changed.

“Are you sure?”

“It was in the safe.”

“Who else knows where you keep it?”

“Only you.”

“And Preston.”

“And Eleanor.”

Julian looked at the floor.

Then at me.

“Where’s the note?”

I handed it to him.

He read it once.

His face went pale.

“What?”

He looked at me.

“Daniel was Eleanor’s brother.”

I stared at him.

“Eleanor never had a brother named Daniel.”

Julian said nothing.

I felt a strange pressure in my chest.

“She had a brother named Daniel?”

“She had a brother named Daniel.”

“Then why did I never know?”

Julian lowered his voice.

“Because Daniel disappeared when they were children.”

I sat down.

The story I remembered was different.

Eleanor had always told me she grew up with one older sister.

No brother.

No Daniel.

No disappearance.

At least, that’s what I remembered.

“Why would she hide that from me?”

“I don’t know.”

Julian pulled out a chair.

“Your wife asked me to investigate Daniel.”

“When?”

“Two years before she died.”

“Why?”

“She received a letter.”

“From Daniel?”

“We don’t know.”

He opened his briefcase.

Inside was a thin folder.

“I kept copies because Eleanor instructed me to.”

He handed it to me.

The first page was a photograph.

A young man stood beside a 1970s Chevrolet.

He looked about twenty.

Dark hair.

Narrow face.

And eyes that seemed strangely familiar.

I turned the photograph over.

On the back was written:

Daniel Mercer. Age 21.

I looked up.

“Mercer?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t Eleanor have the same last name?”

“She did before she married you.”

I stared at the photograph.

“Mercer.”

Julian nodded.

“That was her maiden name.”

I felt something shift inside my memory.

There had always been a missing piece in Eleanor’s stories about her childhood.

Whenever I asked about her parents, she changed the subject.

Whenever I asked about family, she talked about her sister.

Never a brother.

Never Daniel.

“Why did he disappear?”

“According to the records, he left home in 1978.”

“Did he die?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“That’s the strange part.”

Julian opened another file.

“No death certificate. No confirmed burial. No obituary.”

“Then where did he go?”

“We found one record from twenty-two years later.”

He slid the page toward me.

It was a business registration.

My eyes moved across the document.

Then stopped.

Daniel Mercer — Registered Agent.

For a company called:

Hale Restoration Holdings LLC.

I looked at Julian.

“No.”

“That’s what I thought too.”

“You said you didn’t know who was behind the company.”

“I didn’t.”

“But now you do.”

“I know who the paperwork says is connected to it.”

“Daniel.”

“Yes.”

I stood.

“Then why was Preston involved?”

“We don’t know that yet.”

I thought about the messages between Preston and Marissa.

The property value.

The plan to get me out.

The debts.

The loan.

Then I remembered another sentence from Eleanor’s letter.

The debt isn’t his.

I looked at Julian.

“Whose debt is it?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he opened the last folder in his briefcase.

Inside was a bank statement.

Not mine.

Not Preston’s.

Not Marissa’s.

It belonged to someone named Daniel Mercer.

The balance was negative by nearly four hundred thousand dollars.

I looked at the date.

Three months before Eleanor died.

“What does this have to do with my house?”

Julian pointed to the bottom of the page.

There was a transfer.

A large one.

From an account connected to Hale Restoration Holdings.

The money had gone somewhere else.

I read the recipient.

Then I felt the room go cold.

The recipient was:

Preston Hale.

My son.

I dropped the paper.

“No.”

Julian didn’t move.

“Raymond…”

“No.”

I shook my head.

“You’re telling me my son was receiving money from Daniel?”

“I’m telling you the bank records show that.”

“How much?”

Julian looked at the document.

“Over the past eighteen months?”

He swallowed.

“One hundred and eighty-seven thousand dollars.”

I sat down.

One hundred and eighty-seven thousand.

Suddenly, the thirty-thousand-dollar Christmas trip looked different.

The luxury lodge.

The expensive dinners.

The ski rentals.

The private transportation.

The sudden urgency to sell my house.

It wasn’t about Christmas.

It wasn’t even about the money I had spent.

It was about money they expected to keep getting.

My phone buzzed.

Preston.

I didn’t answer.

It buzzed again.

Then again.

A voicemail appeared.

I played it on speaker.

“Dad, please call me. We need to talk.”

His voice sounded frightened.

Not angry.

Frightened.

The message continued.

“Something happened at the lodge.”

Julian looked at me.

“What?”

I turned up the volume.

Preston’s voice became quieter.

“Marissa found something in the office.”

A pause.

“She says someone was inside.”

My skin prickled.

Then Preston said the words I would remember for the rest of my life.

“Dad, I think Daniel is here.”

The message ended.

Neither of us spoke.

Then my phone rang again.

This time, it was Marissa.

I almost ignored it.

But something stopped me.

I answered.

She didn’t say hello.

Instead, I heard her breathing.

“Raymond?”

“Yes.”

“Where is Preston?”

“I don’t know.”

“He was with you.”

“No.”

A pause.

Then she whispered:

“Someone has been following us.”

I looked at Julian.

“Who?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where are you?”

There was silence.

Then Marissa said:

“We’re not in Telluride anymore.”

My heart began pounding.

“What do you mean?”

“We left the lodge.”

“Why?”

“Because someone broke into our room.”