Now I understood that they had heard me perfectly well.

They simply believed my wishes mattered less than Chloe’s problems.

At 10:59, the locksmith made his decision.

“I’ve called the number listed on the authorization.”

My father frowned.

“What number?”

“The contact number for the person granting permission.”

My mother went pale.

The number printed on the form belonged to an old office my grandfather had closed before his death.

The locksmith had reached a recorded message.

“I can’t verify this authorization,” he said. “I’m not comfortable proceeding.”

My father stepped toward him.

“Then you’re fired.”

The locksmith began gathering his tools.

Chloe stared at my mother.

“You told me this was settled!”

“It is settled,” my mother snapped. “Your father has other ways to handle it.”

And then Richard did something I hadn’t expected.

He reached into his coat and pulled out a key.

A brass key with a small blue enamel tag.

My breath caught.

I recognized it immediately.

It was the spare key to my apartment that Grandpa Arthur had kept on his watch chain.

After his funeral, I had searched everywhere for that key. My father told me it had probably been lost among my grandfather’s belongings.

Apparently, he had taken it.

He inserted the key into the lock.

It turned.

My father looked at the locksmith with a triumphant smile.

“See? No damage necessary.”

He opened the door.

My mother entered first.

Chloe followed, already pulling out her phone.

And my father stepped into my living room as though he had finally reclaimed something that had always belonged to him.

I watched them cross the threshold.

Then I noticed something strange.

My father wasn’t looking at the piano, the books, or the view.

He was looking at the brass mantel clock beside the fireplace.

He walked straight toward it.

He opened the small glass door and reached behind the clock face.

When his hand emerged, he was holding a narrow envelope.

I had never seen that envelope before.

My mother turned toward him.

“Richard,” she whispered, “tell me you found it.”

He opened the envelope.

His expression changed.

And for the first time that morning, my father looked genuinely afraid.

Because whatever he had expected to find inside that apartment, it wasn’t what my grandfather had left behind.

It was a photograph.

And on the back, written in my grandfather’s unmistakable handwriting, were seven words:

IF RICHARD FINDS THIS, CALL THE POLICE IMMEDIATELY.

Chapter 3 – THE PHOTOGRAPH BEHIND THE CLOCK

My father read the words twice.

Then he turned the photograph over.

Even through the security camera, I could see his fingers trembling.

It showed my grandfather standing beside a man I recognized as Thomas Bennett, a retired Boston attorney who had helped Arthur manage his investments for decades.

Between them stood a younger Richard, smiling at the camera.

But my attention went to the date printed in the lower corner.

October 14, 2019.

Three years before my grandfather died.

I had never seen the photograph, and I couldn’t understand why it had been hidden behind the clock.

My mother took it from my father’s hand.

“What does it mean?”

“Nothing,” Richard replied.

“Then why are you shaking?”

“I’m not shaking.”

Chloe snatched the photograph.

“Can we deal with this later? The realtor will be here in five minutes.”

My father seized it back.

“Put your phone away.”

She stared at him.

“You said we’d sell the apartment today.”

“And we will.”

He slipped the photograph into his jacket.

That small movement told me more than his words did.

He wasn’t merely trying to take my apartment. He was looking for something inside it.

Something my grandfather had hidden.

I opened another camera feed, the one facing the hallway and the study.

My mother was already opening drawers.

She examined the desk, pulled books from shelves, and lifted the cushions from the window seat.

Chloe went directly to the bedroom.

I felt a sharp pang of violation watching her open my wardrobe.

She lifted my grandfather’s old navy coat from its hanger and checked the pockets.

Then she threw it onto the bed.

“There’s nothing here,” she complained.

My father appeared in the doorway.

“Check the inside pocket.”

“How do you know there’s something in the inside pocket?”

“Just check it.”

Chloe turned the coat inside out.

A small silver object fell onto the carpet.

She bent to retrieve it.

It was my grandfather’s pocket watch, the one he had worn almost every day for thirty years.

Its glass was cracked, and the chain had been repaired with a tiny copper ring.

When I was twelve, Grandpa had given me the watch to examine while he taught me how to tell time without looking at a digital display.