Chapter 2 - The Man Who Wasn't Buried
"Tell me that's not him."
My voice sounded unfamiliar.
Ruth was silent for so long that I wondered whether the call had disconnected.
Then she said, "I don't know how to tell you what I found."
"Start with where the picture came from."
"A woman named Lena Brooks sent it to me this afternoon. She restores antique watch movements. Your mother used to purchase parts from her."
I looked again at the photograph.
The man's thumb was pressed against the metal loupe.
The scar ran diagonally across the joint.
When I was seven, Dad had told me he'd gotten it while repairing a stubborn clasp.
I used to kiss the scar because I thought kisses could fix anything.
"Where was this taken?"
"Brattleboro. Outside a repair shop called Northline Instruments."
"Is he working there?"
"I don't know. Lena said he brought in some precision tools to be serviced. She recognized him from an old trade photograph."
I squeezed the phone.
"Why did she send it to you?"
"Because she thought he was dead."
"So did I."
Ruth exhaled shakily.
"Emma, I swear I never knew he was alive."
I wanted to believe her.
Ruth had been part of our family for as long as I could remember.
She'd attended my school plays.
She'd helped my mother sort through hospital bills.
At Mom's funeral eighteen months earlier, she'd stood beside me until the cemetery emptied.
But that night, trust felt like something I could no longer afford.
"What happened to my father's body?"
"What?"
"The fire. Seventeen years ago. Where was his body buried?"
Ruth didn't answer.
My pulse quickened.
"Ruth."
"I thought your mother had explained."
"Explained what?"
"There was never a recovered body."
I sat down.
The hotel room seemed to tilt.
After leaving the police station, Maya had insisted I stay somewhere Nathan couldn't enter without my permission.
I'd checked into a small hotel in Midtown with one suitcase and a phone charger.
Now I stared at the patterned carpet while Ruth continued speaking.
"Your father disappeared the night of the warehouse fire. The authorities searched, but they never recovered remains they could identify as his."
"But we had a funeral."
"A memorial service."
"There was a coffin."
"Emma..."
My stomach twisted.
"It was empty?"
"Yes."
I remembered standing beside that coffin.
I remembered my mother's black dress and the way she kept one hand around my shoulders.
I remembered dropping a little silver star I'd made at school onto the polished wood.
For seventeen years, I'd believed my father was inside.
"Why didn't anyone tell me?"
"You were twelve. Your mother thought—"
"Please don't tell me what she thought."
Ruth stopped.
I pressed my hand over my eyes.
The same man who'd taught me to polish silver, carve wax models, and recognize a flawed setting might still be alive.
And somewhere between twelve and twenty-nine, I had been allowed to build my life around a lie.
Another call appeared on my screen.
Maya.
"I have to go," I told Ruth.
"Emma, there's something else."
"What?"
"Don't contact that repair shop yet."
"Why?"
"Because the man in that picture may not be using his real name."
"That sounds like another reason to call."
"Please. Give me until morning. Lena promised to check whether he'll be there tomorrow."
I hung up without agreeing.
Maya answered immediately.
"Are you alone?"
"Yes."
"I've sent preservation notices to Nathan's company and the security contractor. We also have a detective's case number for your assault report."
"Does that mean we'll get the video?"
"Not automatically. They may refuse without legal process. But they know now that destroying relevant footage could create serious problems."
I rubbed my forehead.
"What about the proxy?"
"I've reviewed the trust documents again. Friday isn't just your birthday. It's when the voting restrictions tied to your mother's trust expire."
"I know."
"Until then, the trustee controls the shares under the trust agreement. Nathan's proxy purports to take effect as soon as the shares transfer."
"So he planned this."
"It certainly looks deliberate. But looking deliberate and proving fraud are two different things."
"Can we stop the meeting?"
"We can ask a judge for emergency relief. I need evidence showing the signature wasn't yours, and I need to know whether the proxy has already been delivered to the company's transfer agent."
I opened the folder I'd brought from home.
Inside were photocopies of my mother's estate records and the proxy that had started everything.
The signature was frighteningly convincing.
The long curve of the E.
The narrow second m.
The little upward stroke beneath the final a.
It looked like something I had written.
Except I hadn't.
"Maya, how does someone copy a signature that well?"
"Sometimes it's traced or transferred from another document. Sometimes somebody practices. We'll need an expert."
I stared at my name.
Then I noticed something.
At the very end of the signature, beneath the final letter, was a tiny mark.
Almost invisible.
A small hook.
I recognized it.
And suddenly I knew where Nathan had found the signature.
Seven years earlier, I'd signed a design certificate for the first necklace I ever sold.
I had added that hook because my mother said a maker's signature should carry something no machine could imitate perfectly.
Nathan had framed the certificate.
It had hung in his office ever since.
"Maya," I whispered.
"What is it?"
"I think I know which document he copied."
"Can you get it?"
I looked toward the closed hotel door.
The original certificate was hanging in Nathan's private office.
May you like
Inside the store where he'd just assaulted me.
And I was no longer certain he would let anyone retrieve it.
