Of All People,It's You

PHASE ONE

CHAPTER 14

THE PICTURES

I pull open the front door and standing on the landing isn't a shadowy figure or bad news, it's just a tired courier in a navy uniform, holding a heavy cardboard box.

"Diane Ellis?" he asks, checking his scanner.

"Yes," I breathe, letting out a rush of trapped air.

"Delivery from Mrs. Margaret Ellis. Sign here, please."

I sign the pad, take the heavy box, and wish him a good night. From the sofa, Poppy looks over, equally relieved.

"Just a parcel from my mum," I say softly, easing the door shut and sliding the bolt home.

I carry the package back to my bedroom, set it on the mattress, and close the door behind me. Mum mentioned on the phone last week that she’d gathered some of Dad’s old things from the attic to send over.

I slice through the tape and open the flaps. Right on top sits a thick envelope labeled *Photos & Keepsakes*.

I smile before I even realize it, pulling out a stack of glossy photographs.

The first is from my fifth birthday. I'm wearing a ridiculous frilly dress, standing next to a cake nearly as tall as I am.

The next is my sixth. Then my seventh.

Then—my eighth birthday.

I pause, running my fingers over the faded glossy paper. "Oh."

I remember this one. Dad bought an orange-flavored cake because I’d spent an entire week insisting that orange was my favorite color. It wasn't, my favorite color had always been blue but I’d seen a bright orange cake in a bakery window and obsessed over it. Dad took my eight-year-old logic dead seriously and searched three bakeries to find one.

I laugh softly under my breath.

I flip to another picture. Mum looks so young, her hair dark and full. Dad’s arm is wrapped around her shoulders, and I'm sandwiched between them, grinning like I own the world.

We look so happy.

Before Dad died money was never a constant cloud over our heads. We aren't wealthy, but we had enough. Then, in a single afternoon, everything collapsed, bills multiply, funeral costs drain our savings. School fees become a monthly battle. Everything becomes a balance sheet Mum has to calculate twice.

My eyes move to another photo.

Dad.

He's standing on a dusty construction site, a hard hat tucked under his arm, his shirt stained with sweat and earth.

John Ellis. Construction worker.

He spent his life on building sites, eventually forming a tight-knit crew of independent contractors who move from one major development company to another. They even gave themselves a ridiculous nickname: *The Blue Brotherhood*.

His hands were always calloused and dirty. He comes home exhausted, eats whatever Mum cooks, and falls asleep in his armchair before he even finishes complaining about his back.

I turn another photograph—and freeze.

Dad is standing beside a massive piece of industrial machinery. I remember this day vividly. It's a huge commercial concrete mixer, loud enough to make your teeth vibrate when it runs. Dad explained how it works to me like I'm his young apprentice.

He laughed when I told him it looks scary. *"Only beginners get hurt around machines like this, squirt,"* he says.

He was confident. Always convinced he knows what he's doing. His foreman joked around with him, and he laughs back, boasting about how many years he's spent operating heavy equipment.

*"This machine won't be the death of me,"* he joked.

My smile fades.

Because it was. At least... that’s the story they tell us.

***

My dad didn't come home one rainy Thursday night.

At first, Mum wasn't panicked. Construction delays were normal. But one day turned into two. Two turned into three. No phone call. No message and silence from Ravencrest Construction, the main developer overseeing the site.

We call his crew. We call the site manager. We call the police.

Then, after four excruciating days, Ravencrest finally sends a representative to our house.

They tell us John Ellis is dead. An industrial accident. A mechanical malfunction.

Just like that. No warning. No proper explanation. No chance to see the site. We are barely even permitted to view his body before burial—the company rushed everything through so fast it made Mum sick.

Mum never believed their story. Neither did I.

We hired a lawyer and took Ravencrest Construction to court. We sued them for wrongful death and safety negligence. Other grieving families started coming forward too with stories of covered-up accidents, missing site logs, and unsafe conditions.

Ravencrest tried to pay us off with thousands of pounds in quiet settlements to make us sign non-disclosure agreements and go away.

Mum refused every single offer. We wanted answers. We wanted accountability cause it didn't just make sense.

But right when our lawsuit gained momentum, something sinister happened. Our lawyer suddenly urged us to drop the case, claiming we have no evidence. Days later, he stops taking our calls. And before we can retain new legal counsel, Ravencrest Construction abruptly liquidates.

Gone.

The company vanishes almost overnight. Offices clear out, bank accounts close, shell corporations dissolve, and executives scatter. There is no entity left to sue. No paper trail left to follow.

At least, that’s what we know.

***

I stare down at Dad's photograph, my pulse quickening.

I still don't believe that mixer killed my father. Something about Ravencrest's panic, their sudden liquidation, and their paid-off lawyer is rotten to the core. I’ve spent years trying to figure out how a massive firm could just dissolve into thin air.

My eyes drift toward my desk, where my new employee handbook and corporate files rest.

*Boisnoir Group.*

The undisputed titan of construction supplies across the country.

For months, I tell myself I took this job because it's a prestigious career step. Because being Boisnoir’s executive secretary looks incredible on a CV.

But deep down, I know the real reason.

Construction companies cannot operate without raw materials, heavy machinery, and steel supplies. A company as massive as Ravencrest—or whatever new, rebranded corporate names its directors are operating under today *must* buy their supplies from somewhere. And in this region, all roads lead back to Boisnoir Group.

As the executive secretary, I now hold high-level access to client rosters, historical sales ledgers, inactive vendor accounts, and confidential supply contracts.

If Ravencrest re-emerged under a new name, their supply orders will be sitting in Boisnoir’s database. And I am going to find them.

I run my thumb slowly over the edge of Dad's photograph.

"I haven't forgotten," I whisper into the quiet room, my eyes stinging with heat. "I'm going to find out what really happened to you, Dad. I promise."

I wipe away a stray tear before it can drop on the photo.

Justice has been delayed for ten long years. But I have time, I have patience, and now... I finally have an inside key.

I look over at the clock on my nightstand.

Tomorrow morning is my first official day as Boisnoir’s sole executive secretary.

A small, sharp smile touches my lips. This had been my goal from the start. Getting here was phase one.

I place Dad's photograph carefully back inside the envelope. Whatever Ravencrest and their shadow companies are hiding—I'm going to tear it open.

No matter what it takes.