Chapter 12 — The Truth About My Father
Chapter 12 — The Truth About My Father
I had spent twelve years believing my father was dead.
That morning, standing beside Irene in the abandoned church, I discovered something far worse.
He had been alive after the night everyone told me he died.
For three days.
Three days in which my mother knew he was alive.
Three days in which someone had hidden him.
Three days in which he had apparently tried to protect me from a man whose name had been erased from almost every document connected to our family.
And now the woman who had supposedly treated Irene was telling us she was Isabella Vale.
I looked at Irene.
“Where is she?”
“I don't know.”
“You just said she took you.”
“She did.”
“Then where did she take you?”
“To another clinic.”
“Which one?”
“I don't know.”
Irene's voice trembled.
“She blindfolded me.”
I felt anger rising.
“Why would she do that?”
“Because she said Richard was watching every road.”
I looked around the abandoned church.
“So why bring you here?”
“She wanted me to see something.”
“What?”
Irene reached into her coat.
She pulled out a small envelope.
“This.”
I took it.
There was only one thing written on the front.
For Austin.
The handwriting was unmistakable.
My father's.
My hands started shaking.
Inside the envelope was a letter.
Only two pages.
I read the first sentence.
If you are reading this, then I failed to protect you in the way I intended.
I stopped.
Irene watched me.
I continued.
You were always the reason I was afraid. Not because you were weak, but because you were the one thing Richard could use against me.
My throat tightened.
Your mother will tell you I died because of business. She will tell you I was betrayed. Both statements are partly true.
I looked up.
“Partly?”
Irene touched my arm.
“Keep reading.”
I did.
Richard never wanted my money. He wanted control of the bloodline.
The same phrase.
Again.
The bloodline.
He discovered that the Wentworth trust and the Vale inheritance could be combined through a direct descendant. He believed that child would become the most powerful heir either family had ever produced.
I swallowed.
I refused to allow him near you.
Then came the sentence that changed everything.
So Richard decided to remove me.
I closed my eyes.
For twelve years, I had believed my father had died in an accident.
He hadn't.
He had been hunted.
The next paragraph was shorter.
Margaret knew.
I stopped breathing.
I read it again.
She knew Richard planned to kill me. She also knew he intended to use you afterward.
I looked at Irene.
“My mother knew.”
Irene nodded.
“But there is something else.”
I continued.
Margaret tried to warn me too late. When she realized Richard intended to kill you as well, she helped me disappear.
I stared at the page.
That couldn't be right.
My mother had lied.
She had manipulated.
She had attacked Irene.
She had tried to control my child.
But she had also saved my father?
I read on.
Do not mistake her fear for innocence. Margaret made terrible choices. She chose money before family more than once. But she did not kill me.
My hands trembled.
The person who did was someone you trusted.
I froze.
Someone I trusted.
Not Richard.
Not Margaret.
Someone closer.
I read the next line.
I gave that person access because I believed they were loyal.
Then the letter ended.
Except for one final sentence.
The evidence is hidden where I first taught you how to tell the truth from a lie.
I stared at it.
I knew that place.
Immediately.
My father's study.
The old desk.
The brass lamp.
The drawer where he used to put documents.
The place where, when I was a child, he taught me to distinguish real signatures from forged ones.
I looked at Irene.
“We have to go home.”
The old Wentworth house had been sealed by police.
But Detective Harris let us enter.
She had been silent during the entire drive.
When I told her about the letter, she didn't question me.
She simply said:
“Find what your father left.”
We entered through the back.
Dust covered everything.
The house felt frozen in time.
I walked toward the study.
Every step brought back a memory.
My father sitting behind the desk.
Me at ten years old.
His voice.
Never trust a document simply because it has a signature.
I remembered laughing.
“Then what do you trust?”
He had smiled.
“The person who had something to lose by signing it.”
I opened the desk.
Empty.
I checked the drawers.
Nothing.
Then I remembered the brass lamp.
I removed it.
Nothing.
I checked beneath the desk.
Still nothing.
I began to panic.
“He said it was here.”
Irene stepped into the room.
“What did he teach you?”
I looked at her.
“What?”
“The lesson.”
I thought.
Then I remembered.
He had once taken a piece of paper and held it up to the light.
“Sometimes the truth isn't on the page.”
I froze.
“The paper.”
I pulled out an old document.
Held it toward the window.
Nothing.
Then I saw it.
A faint watermark.
A set of initials.
T.W.
I touched them.
The paper opened along a hidden seam.
Inside was a key.
And beneath it—
A photograph.
My father.
Alive.
Three days after the night he supposedly died.
Standing beside a woman.
Isabella.
I stared at the photograph.
On the back was a date.
October 17.
I checked the old newspaper clipping.
My father had supposedly died October 14.
My hands went numb.
He had survived.
There was also a second photograph.
My father standing with a young woman.
I recognized her.
Dr. Wells.
Isabella.
But she looked much younger.
On the back:
The woman who saved me.
I looked at Irene.
“She really did save him.”
“Yes.”
“But why did everyone say he died?”
Irene looked at the photograph.
“Because he wanted Richard to believe he was dead.”
I frowned.
“Then why didn't he come home?”
“Because he couldn't.”
“Why?”
Irene's eyes filled with tears.
“Because Richard had your location.”
I froze.
“My location?”
“You were twelve.”
“What happened?”
“Richard threatened to take you.”
I stared at the photograph.
“My father left me to protect me.”
“Yes.”
I shook my head.
“I thought he abandoned us.”
“He thought disappearing was the only way to keep you alive.”
I sat down.
For twelve years, I had carried anger toward a dead man.
I had hated him for leaving.
Now I realized he had left because he loved me.
And that hurt more than the lie.
Then I noticed something behind the photograph.
A second key.
Larger.
Older.
I picked it up.
An address was engraved on the metal.
I knew it.
A private storage facility.
We drove there immediately.
The unit had been paid for twelve years in advance.
The manager opened it after Harris showed her the authorization.
Inside was a single wooden box.
No money.
No jewelry.
No documents.
Just videotapes.
Dozens of them.
I picked up the first.
A date.
October 14.
The night my father supposedly died.
We found an old television in the office.
Harris connected the tape.
The screen flickered.
Then my father's face appeared.
He looked exhausted.
There was blood on his shirt.
But he was alive.
He looked directly into the camera.
“My name is Thomas Wentworth.”
He paused.
“If you're watching this, I'm either dead or finally free.”
I couldn't breathe.
He continued.
“Richard will tell you I betrayed the family.”
A bitter smile.
“He will say I stole from him.”
“He will say Margaret betrayed me.”
“All of it will be partly true.”
Then his expression changed.
“But none of that is the real story.”
He leaned closer.
“The real story is that my son was born into a war he never knew existed.”
I covered my mouth.
“I didn't protect Austin from Richard.”
My father's voice cracked.
“I protected Richard from Austin.”
Silence.
I stared at the screen.
“What?”
My father continued.
“Because my son inherited something Richard never understood.”
The video distorted.
Then the image returned.
“Not money.”
“Authority.”
He reached into his jacket.
Pulled out a document.
“The Wentworth trust isn't simply a financial trust.”
He placed it on the table.
“It is a control agreement.”
I frowned.
“What does that mean?”
Harris leaned closer.
My father continued.
“Whoever controls the trust controls the network of companies, properties, and political influence built by our family.”
He looked exhausted.
“And there is only one condition.”
He paused.
“The heir must choose it.”
I stared.
“What choice?”
My father looked directly into the camera.
“Power or freedom.”
The screen went black.
The second tape started automatically.
My father's voice returned.
“This is the part nobody will tell you.”
He showed another document.
“The child of Austin Wentworth will inherit the trust.”
I froze.
“But only if Austin remains the legal father.”
I looked at Irene.
“That explains the signature.”
She nodded.
“They need me to surrender my rights.”
“Yes.”
My father continued.
“If anyone attempts to remove Austin as the legal father, the trust will be transferred to the Vale family.”
I suddenly understood why everyone wanted my signature.
It wasn't about money alone.
They needed to change my daughter's legal status.
Then the trust would automatically move.
My father looked directly at the camera.
“And Richard knows this.”
He paused.
“That's why he will never stop.”
The third tape was different.
It showed Margaret.
She was younger.
Crying.
My father stood across from her.
“You have to leave.”
“I can't.”
“You have to.”
“What about Austin?”
“I'll protect him.”
“You can't.”
“I have to.”
Margaret looked terrified.
Then she whispered:
“Richard knows about Irene.”
My blood ran cold.
My father looked at her.
“Who told him?”
“I don't know.”
“Think.”
Margaret shook her head.
“He knows everything.”
My father walked toward her.
“Then someone close to us is talking.”
The tape ended.
I stared at the screen.
Someone close.
Someone trusted.
Someone with access.
Then I remembered the photograph Detective Harris had shown me.
Carla.
Margaret.
Marianne.
But there had been someone else.
Dr. Samuel Grant.
The doctor from the first pregnancy.
The man who had access to Irene's medical records.
The man who had worked with Richard.
I looked at Harris.
“Find him.”
She nodded.
“Already did.”
I stared.
“What?”
“He disappeared six years ago.”
“Where?”
“Europe.”
“Is he still alive?”
Harris looked at me.
“Yes.”
“Where?”
She hesitated.
“London.”
I remembered my canceled flight.
The trip I had been supposed to take.
The place I had planned to go before everything fell apart.
London.
I suddenly understood.
The attack on me.
The canceled flight.
The timing.
Someone had wanted me home.
Someone wanted me distracted.
Someone wanted me away from London.
Because Samuel Grant was there.
And he knew the truth.
My phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
“Hello?”
A man's voice.
Older.
Calm.
“Mr. Wentworth.”
“Who is this?”
“You already know.”
My heart stopped.
“Samuel Grant.”
“Yes.”
“Where is my wife?”
Silence.
Then:
“She's alive.”
“Where?”
“You're asking the wrong question.”
I clenched my jaw.
“What should I ask?”
“Why did your father trust me?”
I looked at the tapes.
“Because you betrayed him.”
Grant laughed quietly.
“Did I?”
“You worked for Richard.”
“I worked for your father.”
“Then why did you disappear?”
“Because your father ordered me to.”
I froze.
“What?”
“Ask him.”
“My father is dead.”
“No.”
Grant's voice became quieter.
“Your father is not dead.”
I stopped breathing.
“You're lying.”
“I saw him six months ago.”
“Where?”
“In London.”
My heart pounded.
“Why?”
“He wanted to see his granddaughter.”
I looked at Irene.
She had tears in her eyes.
“He knows about the baby?”
“He knows everything.”
“Where is he now?”
Silence.
Then:
“He's coming home.”
The call ended.
I stood frozen.
Irene grabbed my arm.
“Austin?”
I couldn't speak.
Because for twelve years, I had believed my father was dead.
And now a man I had considered a traitor had just told me the impossible.
My father was alive.
And somewhere in London, he had been waiting.
But there was something worse.
Grant had said he wanted to see his granddaughter.
Which meant my father knew about Irene.
He knew about the pregnancy.
He knew about Richard.
And if he was coming home now…
it meant he believed the war was finally reaching its end.
Or that he knew something was about to happen that none of us were prepared for.
I looked at the final tape.
It had one word written on it.
AUSTIN.
I put it into the machine.
My father's face appeared.
Older.
Tired.
But alive.
He looked directly into the camera.
“If you're watching this, son, then Irene is in danger.”
I froze.
“And if she is in danger, Richard has already discovered the truth.”
He paused.
“The person behind Margaret isn't Richard.”
My blood ran cold.
“Richard is only the man you can see.”
My father leaned closer.
“The real enemy is the person who has been controlling him.”
The screen flickered.
Then he said the words that shattered everything I thought I knew.
“Her name is Isabella Vale.”
I stared at the screen.
“But remember this.”
My father's expression became almost desperate.
“Isabella is not trying to steal your daughter.”
“She is trying to save her.”
The video ended.
Irene looked at me.
“Then why did she take me?”
I couldn't answer.
Because the final frame of the video had frozen on my father's face.
And beneath it, barely visible, was a handwritten message.
Do not let Irene give birth in Arizona.
My blood turned cold.
May you like
Because Irene was already eight months pregnant.
And her due date was less than four weeks away.
