Episode4-TheNightHeDied
1479 Words
The phone hit the floor with a loud c***k.
Nobody moved.
Nobody spoke.
Isabella stared at the device lying near her feet.
Her hands were shaking.
Her breathing was uneven.
The caller’s words echoed endlessly inside her mind.
Why was he trying to run the night he died?
The question felt like a knife twisting deeper and deeper into her chest.
Because she had never heard that before.
Not once.
The police had told her that her father died in a car accident while driving home.
A tragic accident.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
That was the official story.
The only story.
Now a stranger had just suggested something completely different.
Alexander was the first to react.
“What did he say?”
His voice cut through the silence.
Isabella looked up.
For a moment she could not find her words.
Everything felt unreal.
Like a nightmare she could not wake up from.
“Miss Hart.”
This time Richard Hale spoke.
Concern filled his voice.
“What happened?”
She swallowed hard.
Then she repeated the conversation.
Every word.
Every sentence.
Every detail she could remember.
By the time she finished, the room felt colder.
Much colder.
Richard Hale sank into his chair.
His face had become pale.
Alexander remained standing.
His expression was unreadable.
Yet something about him had changed.
The calm businessman was gone.
In his place stood a man trying to solve a dangerous puzzle.
“A blocked number?” he asked.
Isabella nodded.
“Yes.”
Alexander pulled out his phone.
“I’ll have it traced.”
Richard Hale looked skeptical.
“Can that be done?”
“It can.”
The confidence in his voice was unsettling.
But Isabella supposed that was what happened when a person owned half the city.
People found ways to do things.
Alexander stepped away and made a call.
A quiet conversation followed.
When he returned several minutes later, his expression remained grim.
“It may take some time.”
“Will they find him?” Isabella asked.
“Maybe.”
Maybe.
Not exactly reassuring.
She sat down slowly.
Her legs suddenly felt weak.
The lawyer poured a glass of water and handed it to her.
“Thank you.”
She took a sip.
Then another.
Trying to calm herself.
Trying to think.
But her thoughts refused to cooperate.
Every answer seemed to create ten new questions.
Her father had written letters.
Someone had hidden those letters.
Someone had revealed those letters.
Someone had erased security footage.
Someone had called her.
And now someone was suggesting her father had not died the way she believed.
The entire situation felt impossible.
“What do we know?” Alexander suddenly asked.
Richard Hale looked up.
“What?”
“What do we actually know?”
The lawyer frowned.
Alexander folded his arms.
“We’re chasing theories.”
“Because that’s all we have.”
“No.”
His blue eyes narrowed slightly.
“We have facts.”
The room became quiet.
Even Isabella found herself listening.
Alexander continued.
“Fact number one. Jonathan Hart signed a contract with my family twenty five years ago.”
Nobody argued.
“Fact number two. He left letters for Isabella.”
Again, nobody argued.
“Fact number three. Somebody wants those letters discovered.”
A chill ran through Isabella.
“Fact number four.”
His gaze moved toward the lawyer.
“The security footage was erased.”
Richard Hale nodded reluctantly.
“Fact number five.”
Alexander’s voice became colder.
“Somebody knew Isabella would be here today.”
The statement hit Isabella immediately.
She straightened in her chair.
Of course.
The caller had contacted her shortly after the second letter was revealed.
That could not be coincidence.
The person knew.
Somehow.
Someone was watching.
The realization made her skin crawl.
Richard Hale appeared to reach the same conclusion.
“That would mean…”
“Yes.”
Alexander finished the sentence.
“There is someone close to this situation.”
Silence followed.
Nobody wanted to say it aloud.
But everyone was thinking the same thing.
The person responsible might already be nearby.
Watching.
Listening.
Waiting.
A knock interrupted the conversation.
All three turned toward the door.
One of the firm’s assistants stepped inside.
“Mr. Hale.”
The lawyer looked up.
“Yes?”
“A courier just delivered this.”
The assistant held out a large envelope.
Richard Hale accepted it.
“Who sent it?”
The assistant shook his head.
“No return address.”
Immediately, tension filled the room.
Alexander stepped closer.
“Open it.”
Richard Hale hesitated.
Then carefully tore open the envelope.
Inside was a single photograph.
Nothing else.
No note.
No explanation.
Just a photograph.
The lawyer removed it slowly.
The moment he looked at it, his face changed.
Fear flashed across his eyes.
Real fear.
Not confusion.
Not concern.
Fear.
Alexander noticed immediately.
“What is it?”
The lawyer said nothing.
His grip tightened around the photograph.
“Mr. Hale.”
Still nothing.
Alexander stepped forward and took the picture from him.
The billionaire stared at it.
His expression hardened instantly.
A dangerous look entered his eyes.
Then he turned the photograph toward Isabella.
The moment she saw it, her breath caught.
The picture was old.
Very old.
At least twenty years old.
Three men stood together.
One of them was her father.
Younger.
Healthier.
Smiling.
The second man was unfamiliar.
Tall.
Broad shouldered.
Expensively dressed.
The third man made her heart skip.
Even though she had never met him, she recognized him immediately.
Because she had seen his face countless times in magazines.
William Blackwood.
Alexander’s father.
“What is this?” she whispered.
Nobody answered.
Because nobody knew.
Or perhaps because nobody wanted to say it aloud.
The three men looked happy.
Friendly.
Close.
Not like enemies.
Not like families involved in decades of conflict.
Friends.
The realization confused Isabella.
Her father and William Blackwood had known each other.
Known each other well enough to take photographs together.
Yet neither family had ever mentioned it.
Why?
She looked closer.
Something caught her attention.
A building stood behind them.
An old warehouse.
Part of a sign remained visible.
The picture quality was poor, but she could still make out a few words.
Hartwell Shipping Company.
The name meant nothing to her.
Absolutely nothing.
“Do either of you know this company?” she asked.
Richard Hale frowned.
“No.”
Alexander continued studying the photograph.
Then something changed.
His eyes narrowed.
“What?”
He pointed toward the third man.
The one Isabella did not recognize.
“That’s not William Blackwood.”
Everyone stared.
“What?”
Alexander tapped the image.
“My father is on the left.”
Confusion spread across Isabella’s face.
She looked again.
Then again.
The resemblance was undeniable.
The man she assumed was William Blackwood wasn’t him.
The man on the left was.
Meaning the stranger in the middle was someone else entirely.
Someone standing between their fathers.
Someone important enough to be photographed with both men.
Someone whose identity had remained hidden for decades.
A chill swept through Isabella.
Because suddenly the picture felt less like a memory.
And more like a clue.
A very important clue.
Richard Hale took the photograph back.
His eyes widened slightly.
“Oh my God.”
Alexander looked at him sharply.
“What?”
The lawyer swallowed.
“I think I know who he is.”
The room froze.
“You do?”
Richard Hale nodded slowly.
His face had become pale again.
“Years ago, there was a businessman.”
Silence filled the room.
“A very powerful businessman.”
“What was his name?” Isabella asked.
The lawyer hesitated.
For a moment he seemed unsure whether he should answer.
Then he finally spoke.
“Thomas Mercer.”
The name meant nothing to Isabella.
But Alexander reacted immediately.
His expression darkened.
“You know him?” Isabella asked.
Alexander nodded once.
“Everyone in my industry knows that name.”
Her stomach tightened.
“Why?”
Alexander’s eyes remained fixed on the photograph.
“Because Thomas Mercer disappeared twenty years ago.”
Silence.
Complete silence.
“Disappeared?”
Alexander nodded.
“He vanished without a trace.”
The room suddenly felt colder.
Much colder.
Isabella looked down at the photograph again.
At the smiling stranger standing between her father and Alexander’s father.
A man who supposedly disappeared twenty years ago.
A man connected to both families.
A man nobody had mentioned until now.
Then she noticed something else.
Something hidden near the bottom corner of the picture.
A handwritten note.
Tiny.
Almost invisible.
She leaned closer.
Her pulse quickened.
There were only four words.
Four simple words written in black ink.
But they were enough to send fear racing through her body.
Because the note read:
Find Mercer before they do.
- Writer
