Blackwood

The Letter

The morning after Julian's funeral, George found the letter.

It was tucked inside his father's old leather journal, the one George had found in the private study what felt like a lifetime ago. The journal was sitting on the kitchen counter of George's apartment, where he'd left it after cleaning out Julian's small place. He hadn't had the heart to look through it until now.

The letter was handwritten. Julian's script was shaky, the letters uneven. It was dated three days before he died.

George sat down at the small kitchen table. The apartment was quiet. Sunlight streamed through the window. He unfolded the letter and began to read.

*Dear George,*

*If you're reading this, I'm gone. I hope I had the chance to say goodbye in person. But if not, I wanted you to have this. I wanted you to know the truth. All of it.*

*I've spent my whole life lying. To your mother. To your brothers. To you. I told myself I was protecting you. Protecting the family. Protecting the legacy. But the truth is, I was protecting myself. I was too scared to face the consequences of my actions.*

*You deserved better. All of you.*

*There's something I never told you. Something I've carried with me for thirty years. When I was young, before I met your mother, I did something terrible. Something that shaped the rest of my life. I had a brother. A brother I never talk about.*

*His name was David Blackwood. He was two years younger than me. We grew up together in a house that was never a home. Our father was cruel. Our mother was weak. We only had each other.*

*When I was twenty-two, I was offered a job. A job that would change my life. A job that would make me rich. But there was a catch. I had to get rid of my brother. He was a threat, they said. A liability. He knew too much about the people I would be working with.*

*I didn't do it. I couldn't. David was my brother. I loved him.*

*But David found out about the offer. And he was furious. He said I was going to abandon him. Leave him behind. He said he'd ruin me. Expose everything. Destroy my chances before I could even start.*

*I was young. Stupid. Scared. I told him to go ahead. I told him I didn't care. That night, David disappeared. No one ever saw him again. The police said he ran away. They said he was probably dead. But I always wondered. I always wondered if he really ran. Or if someone made him disappear.*

*The people I worked for had connections. Powerful connections. I never asked what happened to David. I was too scared to find out. So I told myself he'd left. I told myself he was alive somewhere. I told myself I wasn't responsible.*

*But I was responsible. I knew it then. I know it now. And I've carried that guilt with me every single day.*

*I'm telling you this, George, because I need you to know. I need you to understand that I was never the man you thought I was. I was a coward. A liar. A man who put his own survival above everything else.*

*But I loved you. I loved all of you. And I'm sorry.*

*Your father,*

*Julian*

George read the letter twice. Then he set it down on the table.

A brother. His father had a brother. A brother who'd disappeared thirty years ago.

George didn't know what to think. He didn't know what to feel. He was angry. He was sad. He was confused.

But more than anything, he was curious.

Who was David Blackwood? What had happened to him? And did anyone else in the family know about him?

George picked up his phone and called Arthur.

Arthur answered on the second ring. "George? What's wrong?"

"Did you know Dad had a brother?"

Arthur was quiet for a moment. "A brother? No. I didn't know that."

"His name was David. He disappeared thirty years ago. Dad wrote about him in a letter. A letter he left for me."

"David Blackwood." Arthur's voice was thoughtful. "I've never heard that name. Not once."

"Me neither."

"Maybe Dad was making it up. Maybe it was a delusion."

"He wasn't delusional. He was dying. People tell the truth when they're dying."

Arthur was quiet again. Then: "What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to find out what happened to David Blackwood."

"How?"

"I don't know yet. But I'll figure it out."

---

George started with the internet.

He searched for David Blackwood. Nothing. He searched for Blackwood family history. Nothing. He searched for missing persons reports from thirty years ago. There were thousands of them. But none that matched.

He called the Providence Police Department. They had no records of a David Blackwood. He called the Rhode Island State Archives. They had nothing.

He was getting nowhere.

Then he remembered something. His father's private study. The room behind the bookcase. The room where George had found the photographs of Elizabeth and Christopher.

Maybe there was something else in that room. Something he'd missed.

George drove back to Rhode Island.

---

The Blackwood mansion was empty.

The staff had been let go. The furniture was covered with sheets. The place felt like a museum. Cold. Silent. Dead.

George walked through the halls, his footsteps echoing on the marble floors. He passed the living room where Cade had been arrested. The kitchen where he'd snuck snacks as a child. The staircase where he'd hidden from his brothers.

He reached the study. The bookcase was still open, the way he'd left it. The private study was still there. The steel door was unlocked.

George walked inside.

The room was smaller than he remembered. The desk was still there. The filing cabinet. The photograph on the wall of Julian with an unknown woman.

George pulled open the desk drawers. Nothing. He checked the filing cabinet. Nothing.

Then he noticed something. The photograph on the wall. The woman in it. She was young, maybe twenty. She had dark hair and dark eyes. She was smiling.

And behind her, in the background, was a man. A young man. Maybe eighteen or nineteen. He was standing in the shadows, barely visible.

George pulled the photograph off the wall and looked at the back.

*Julian and Margaret, 1975.*

Margaret. Not Eleanor. Margaret.

George stared at the name. Who was Margaret?

He turned the photograph over and looked at the man in the background. He was young. Thin. Dark hair. Sharp features.

It could be David. It could be anyone.

George put the photograph in his pocket and left the room.

---

He called Arthur on the way back to his car.

"Arthur. I found a photograph. Dad with a woman named Margaret. It's dated 1975."

"Margaret?" Arthur sounded confused. "Who's Margaret?"

"I don't know. But she's in the photograph. And there's a man in the background. A young man. He could be David."

"Where did you find this?"

"In Dad's private study. It was hanging on the wall. I walked past it a dozen times and never noticed."

Arthur was quiet for a moment. "George, this is getting complicated."

"I know. But I need to know the truth."

"Why?"

George thought about it. Why did he need to know? His father was dead. The family was scattered. What difference did it make if there was a long-lost uncle?

But George couldn't let it go. He needed to know. He needed to understand.

"Because Dad wanted me to know," George said. "He left me that letter for a reason. He wanted me to find the truth."

Arthur sighed. "Okay. What do you need?"

"I need you to find out everything you can about Margaret. Who she was. What happened to her."

"I'll try."

---

The next few weeks were slow.

George went back to Chicago. Back to work. Back to his normal life. But he couldn't stop thinking about the photograph. About David. About Margaret.

Sam noticed. "You're distracted," she said one afternoon. "What's going on?"

George told her. About the letter. About the photograph. About his father's secret brother.

Sam listened without interrupting. When he finished, she said: "That's quite a story."

"I know."

"Are you sure you want to find out what happened? Some secrets are best left buried."

"I know. But I can't let it go."

Sam nodded. "Then let me help. I'm good at finding things."

George smiled. "I know you are."

---

Sam started with the basics.

She searched for Margaret Blackwood. Nothing. She searched for Margaret and Julian Blackwood. Nothing. She searched for Margaret and Rhode Island. Nothing.

Then she tried a different approach. She searched for Margaret and a date. 1975.

A wedding announcement appeared. "Margaret Whitmore and Julian Blackwood, married June 14, 1975."

George stared at the screen. "Margaret Whitmore. That's my mother's maiden name."

Sam looked at him. "Your mother's maiden name is Whitmore."

"Yes."

"Your father married Margaret Whitmore in 1975."

"That's my mother. Eleanor Whitmore." George's heart was pounding. "She was called Margaret before she changed her name."

"Or she was called Margaret by people who knew her well."

George shook his head. "My mother's name is Eleanor. It's always been Eleanor."

"Maybe she was born Margaret and changed it later."

"To Eleanor?"

"It happens. Some people don't like their birth names. Some people want to reinvent themselves."

George stared at the screen. Margaret Whitmore. Eleanor Whitmore. The same woman. His mother.

But why would she change her name? And why would his father have a photograph of her in his private study with a different name?

Unless the photograph wasn't of his mother.

Unless it was of someone else. Someone who looked like her.

Someone named Margaret.

---

George called his mother.

She answered on the second ring. "George? Is everything okay?"

"Mom. I need to ask you something."

"Of course. What is it?"

"Did Dad have a brother? A brother named David?"

Eleanor was quiet for a long moment. Then: "How did you find out about David?"

George's heart skipped. "You know about him?"

"Yes. I know about him."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because your father asked me not to. He said it was too painful. He said he couldn't talk about it."

"Mom. What happened to David?"

Eleanor was quiet again. Then: "I don't know. No one knows. He disappeared thirty years ago. The police searched for weeks. They never found him."

"Dad wrote me a letter. Before he died. He said he was responsible for David's disappearance."

"He wasn't. He blamed himself. But he wasn't responsible."

"Then what happened?"

Eleanor sighed. "I think you should talk to your mother."

"I'm talking to you."

"No. I mean your real mother."

George's blood ran cold. "What?"

"Julian wasn't your father, George. I wasn't your mother. Your real mother was Margaret Whitmore. My sister."

George sat down heavily. "What?"

"Margaret and I were twins. Identical twins. We grew up together. We were inseparable. But she fell in love with Julian. And Julian fell in love with her. They got married in 1975."

"But you're married to Dad. You're Eleanor."

"I am Eleanor. But I wasn't the one who married Julian. Margaret was. I took her place when she died."

George's head was spinning. "She died?"

"Yes. She died giving birth to you."

George stared at the phone. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think.

"George?" Eleanor's voice was worried. "Are you okay?"

"My real mother is dead?"

"Yes. I'm sorry. I should have told you years ago. But Julian asked me not to. He said it was better if you didn't know."

"Better for who?"

"Better for you. He wanted you to have a normal childhood. A mother who was alive. A family that wasn't broken."

George laughed. It was a hollow sound. "Our family was always broken. You just hid it better than most."

Eleanor was quiet. "I know. I'm sorry."

---

George hung up the phone.

He sat in his apartment, staring at the wall. His real mother was dead. His father wasn't his father. His life was built on a lie.

But it was also built on love. His mother—Eleanor—had raised him. She'd loved him. She'd protected him.

Even if she wasn't his biological mother, she was his mother. The only one he'd ever known.

George stood up. He walked to the window and looked out at the city.

His father was dead. His real mother was dead. His family was scattered.

But he was still standing.

And he was going to find out what happened to David Blackwood. If it was the last thing he did.