Chapter 3 - THE PHOTOGRAPH BEHIND THE CLOCK
My father read the words twice.
Then he turned the photograph over.
Even through the security camera, I could see his fingers trembling.
It showed my grandfather standing beside a man I recognized as Thomas Bennett, a retired Boston attorney who had helped Arthur manage his investments for decades.
Between them stood a younger Richard, smiling at the camera.
But my attention went to the date printed in the lower corner.
October 14, 2019.
Three years before my grandfather died.
I had never seen the photograph, and I couldn't understand why it had been hidden behind the clock.
My mother took it from my father's hand.
“What does it mean?”
“Nothing,” Richard replied.
“Then why are you shaking?”
“I'm not shaking.”
Chloe snatched the photograph.
“Can we deal with this later? The realtor will be here in five minutes.”
My father seized it back.
“Put your phone away.”
She stared at him.
“You said we'd sell the apartment today.”
“And we will.”
He slipped the photograph into his jacket.
That small movement told me more than his words did.
He wasn't merely trying to take my apartment. He was looking for something inside it.
Something my grandfather had hidden.
I opened another camera feed, the one facing the hallway and the study.
My mother was already opening drawers.
She examined the desk, pulled books from shelves, and lifted the cushions from the window seat.
Chloe went directly to the bedroom.
I felt a sharp pang of violation watching her open my wardrobe.
She lifted my grandfather's old navy coat from its hanger and checked the pockets.
Then she threw it onto the bed.
“There's nothing here,” she complained.
My father appeared in the doorway.
“Check the inside pocket.”
“How do you know there's something in the inside pocket?”
“Just check it.”
Chloe turned the coat inside out.
A small silver object fell onto the carpet.
She bent to retrieve it.
It was my grandfather's pocket watch, the one he had worn almost every day for thirty years.
Its glass was cracked, and the chain had been repaired with a tiny copper ring.
When I was twelve, Grandpa had given me the watch to examine while he taught me how to tell time without looking at a digital display.
He had explained that the watch was more valuable to him than any of his expensive possessions because it had belonged to his own father.
After the funeral, I had searched for it.
My mother told me it must have been misplaced.
Now Chloe held it as though it were a piece of unwanted jewelry.
“Is this what you're looking for?”
My father took it from her.
“No. But keep it.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
He turned the watch over and pressed the small metal button on its side.
The back cover clicked open.
He stared at the inside.
Then he closed it quickly.
I leaned closer to the screen.
What had he seen?
My father placed the watch in his pocket and returned to the living room.
The doorbell rang.
The realtor had arrived.
A woman in a charcoal suit entered carrying a leather document case. She introduced herself as Melissa Grant and explained that she had been told the apartment was ready for a private valuation.
She glanced around the living room.
“This is a beautiful property.”
“It's worth considerably more than it was five years ago,” my father replied. “We'd like a quick sale.”
Melissa looked at him.
“Are you the owner?”
“My daughter owns it, but she has authorized us to manage the sale.”
“May I see her written authorization?”
My mother immediately produced the forged letter.
Melissa read it, then examined the property record.
“I'm afraid I can't list the property based on this.”
My father stiffened.
“Why not?”
“The ownership record shows Clara Bennett as the sole owner. I need to speak directly with her or review valid authority to act on her behalf.”
“She is unavailable.”
“Then we can schedule another appointment.”
Chloe laughed bitterly.
“Everyone keeps saying that. Is nobody in Boston capable of doing anything without making it a legal production?”
Melissa closed her document case.
“Selling real estate is a legal transaction. That's precisely why.”
My father stepped between her and the door.
“Perhaps you don't understand the situation. My daughter has been irresponsible with her finances, and we are trying to protect the family.”
Melissa's expression cooled.
“Then your daughter should be the one making decisions about her property.”
That sentence appeared to infuriate him more than any accusation could have.
“You're wasting our time,” he snapped.
Melissa left.
The moment the door closed, Chloe turned on my father.
“You promised me the money.”
“And you will get it.”
“When? My creditors have given me until Monday. If I don't pay them, they're going to take me to court.”
My mother gripped her daughter's arm.
“Keep your voice down.”
“Why? Clara isn't here!”
My father looked toward the security camera above the thermostat.
I froze.
For one terrible second, I thought he had seen it.
But he merely frowned at the small device.
“Did she install that thing?”
Chloe shrugged.
“She likes gadgets.”
He walked toward the thermostat.
I held my breath.
Then he turned away without touching it.
“We have until Monday,” he said. “Arthur kept records. I know he did. We find them, and everything becomes easier.”
My mother stared at him.
“What records?”
He didn't answer.
Instead, he went to the study and began removing books from the shelves.
I watched the apartment that had once felt like a sanctuary become a crime scene.
At 11:17, I called the Boston Police Department and gave them the address, the names of the people inside, and the location of my hotel.
I explained that I had previously filed a report because I feared my family would attempt to enter my apartment without permission.
I told the dispatcher about the forged documents, the stolen key, and the locksmith.
I also told her that the entire incident was being recorded.
The dispatcher asked me to remain where I was and avoid confronting the people inside.
I agreed.
Then I opened the audio recording of the conversation I had overheard in my mother's sunroom.
I listened again to Richard's voice.
Three weeks is more than enough time to take possession of Clara's apartment.
There was something I hadn't noticed before.
After my mother mentioned calling the realtor, my father had said something else.
A sentence spoken so quietly that I had initially mistaken it for a sigh.
If she finds the original, we're finished.
I replayed it.
Then I replayed it again.
My grandfather had hidden a photograph, a pocket watch, and possibly some kind of record.
My father was searching for all three.
And suddenly, I realized that stealing my apartment might never have been his real objective.
At 11:24, the police arrived downstairs.
My father saw the officers through the living room window.
He didn't run.
He didn't panic.
He calmly walked to the front door and opened it before they could knock.
“Officers,” he said, smiling. “There seems to have been a misunderstanding.”
Behind him, my mother closed the portfolio.
Chloe slipped the pocket watch into her handbag.
May you like
And as the first officer stepped inside, my father said something that made my blood turn cold.
“My daughter gave us permission to sell this apartment. If she says otherwise, she's lying.”
