His Last Secret

Chapter 7

The bank opens at nine. We're parked outside at eight thirty sharp. The engine ticks as it cools. Cold seeps through the windows.

"Why a safety deposit box?" I ask.

"Because my father had one." Julian's hands are steady on the wheel. "He brought me here as a kid. Made me wait in the lobby while he went in the back."

"What was in his?"

"I never knew. He died and it was never mentioned again."

"But you think Elena used it?"

"She was thorough. If she wanted something hidden from me, she'd put it somewhere I'd never think to look."

"A bank box in your father's name."

"I'm his legal heir. The bank has to let me access it."

The clock ticks to eight forty-five. Each second grates in the silence.

"What if it's empty?"

"Then we're back to square one."

"And if it's not?"

Julian looks at me. "Then we're closer to the truth."

The bank opens. We walk in together. The chill hits first. Then the smell — old paper, floor polish, and something metallic underneath.

A teller greets us with a practiced smile. "How can I help you today?"

Julian handles it. He produces his ID. The death certificate for his father. The trust documents. The paper rustles in the quiet lobby.

The teller's smile falters. "I need to check with the manager."

"Take your time."

She disappears through a back door. Her footsteps echo off the marble floor.

"We might not have long," Julian says quietly.

"Before what?"

"Before someone tells Morrison we're here."

I glance at the door. No one's followed us yet. My pulse hammers anyway.

The manager appears. Older man. Gray suit. He looks nervous.

"Mr. Blackwood. We weren't expecting you."

"I'm here to access my father's box."

"The box was transferred to Mrs. Blackwood's name six months before she passed."

"Elena?"

"Yes, sir. She came in with the proper documentation. Changed the access."

Julian's face goes tight. A muscle jumps in his jaw.

"Can I access it now?"

"As her surviving spouse, yes. But I need to inform you. Someone else was here yesterday."

"Who?"

"I'm not at liberty to say."

"Who?"

The manager swallows. I see his throat move. "A Detective Morrison. He had a warrant. He accessed the box."

My stomach drops. The dread settles like a stone in my gut.

"Was anything removed?"

"I can't share that information without legal counsel."

Julian steps forward. "I'm her husband. I have rights."

"Yes, but the detective ordered the box sealed pending investigation."

"Then unseal it."

"I can't."

"Then get the detective on the phone."

The manager hesitates. Then nods.

He makes the call. His fingers tremble as he dials.

Julian paces. His energy is coiled. Ready to snap. His footsteps tap-shuffle-tap on the marble.

"The detective is on his way," the manager says.

"How long?"

"Twenty minutes."

"Then we'll wait."

Twenty minutes. The clock on the wall ticks loud in the silence. The cameras watch from every corner. The tellers pretend not to stare. I feel the weight of their gaze.

Julian pulls me aside. "When Morrison gets here, he's going to try to shut us down."

"Then we don't let him."

"He has a warrant."

"Then we find another way."

We wait. My hands are cold. I press them flat against my thighs.

The door opens at nine fifteen.

But it's not Morrison.

It's Alex.

He walks in looking guilty. His shoes squeak on the polished floor.

"Julian. Don't do this."

"Don't do what?"

"Don't open that box. Whatever's in there will destroy you."

"You know what's in it."

"No. But Elena told me enough. She said if I ever let you find it, I'd lose you forever."

"Then you already lost me."

Alex reaches out. Julian pulls away. The air between them goes tight and thin.

The manager watches us, terrified. I can smell his sweat.

"I'll make this simple," Julian says. "I'm accessing my wife's box. If you won't let me, I'll sue you personally."

"It's sealed."

"Then unseal it. Or I'll have your job."

The manager caves. His shoulders slump as he leads us to the back.

The room is small. Private. A single table and a wall of safety deposit boxes. The air is still. Dust motes float in the pale light.

Julian inserts the key. His hands are shaking. The metal scrapes against metal.

The box slides out.

It's heavier than I expected. The cold steel presses into my palms as I help him carry it.

Julian sets it on the table carefully. The weight lands with a dull thud.

We open it together.

Inside: photos. More photos than the cabin had. My fingers brush the slick paper.

Elena pregnant. Really pregnant. Full belly, glowing skin.

And a birth certificate.

Julian reads it. His face goes pale. White as paper.

"What does it say?"

He hands it to me. The paper is warm from his grip.

Mother: Sarah Mitchell.

Father: Julian Blackwood.

"Sarah Mitchell," I whisper. "Who's that?"

"I don't know."

"But the baby..."

"Isn't Elena's."

We stare at the paper. The ache spreads through my chest.

"The mother isn't Elena."

"No."

"Then whose baby was she holding in that cabin photo?"

Julian's voice breaks. "Mine. With another woman."

"And Elena knew."

"Elena raised her."

Or hid her.

Or something else entirely.

The photos beneath tell more. A little girl growing up. Age two. Age four. Age six. Each image a sharp sting.

Then nothing.

"Where's the child now?"

Julian can't answer. He just stares at the birth certificate like it's a ghost.

"Julian."

"I have a daughter."

"Yes."

"I never knew she existed."

"Elena kept her from you."

"I don't understand. Why would she do that?"

"Maybe she didn't have a choice."

"Everyone has a choice."

"Did your father give her one?"

He looks at me. Hope flickers behind the pain in his eyes.

"My father was dead by then."

"His reach wasn't."

Julian picks up the photos. He spreads them across the table. His fingers linger on each one.

A little girl with dark hair. Gray eyes. His eyes.

"She looks like my mother."

"Yes. She does."

"Her name was supposed to be Lily. Elena always said she wanted a daughter named Lily."

"But you never had a daughter."

"Not that I knew."

"Elena gave her that name anyway. In the photos."

Julian's hands shake. The photos rustle.

"She knew all along."

"She was connected to the agency. She knew about Sarah. She knew about the baby."

"She married me anyway."

"To protect the child."

"Or to get close enough to destroy the evidence."

"But she didn't destroy it. She kept it."

"Because she wanted to tell you."

"Or because she needed leverage."

Julian looks at me. The weight of everything presses down.

"Against who?"

"Against your father. Against Marcus. Against whoever threatened that little girl."

Footsteps echo in the hall. Heavy. Measured.

Morrison is coming.

I grab the birth certificate. The photos. The cold paper slides against my ribs.

"Hide them."

"Where?"

"Give them to me."

I shove them in my jacket. The corner of the certificate digs into my skin.

Morrison enters the room. His eyes sweep everything.

"The box stays."

"Take it."

He stops. "You're giving it up?"

"There's nothing in it."

He checks. He finds nothing.

He knows we took something.

But he can't prove it.

"Leave," he says.

We leave.

Outside, the air is cold. Sharp. It burns going down.

I hand Julian the birth certificate.

"Sarah Mitchell."

"We need to find her."

"She died six years ago."

"How do you know?"

"Elena's records. She had a death certificate too."

"Then who's been taking care of Lily?"

"I don't know."

Julian looks at the sky. Gray clouds roll overhead.

"But I'm going to find out."