The Photograph He Tried to Bury

Chapter 09 - May Seventeenth

Thomas Reed lived in a narrow brick townhouse in Cambridge, surrounded by law books and unopened mail.

He was seventy-three, recently retired, and visibly unsettled when Evelyn appeared at his door with Mara beside her.

For a moment, he looked as if he had seen a ghost.

“Mara Bennett,” he whispered.

“You were told I died,” Mara said.

“I was told you chose silence.”

Evelyn stepped inside. “Tell us about May seventeenth.”

Thomas locked the door behind them.

On that date, six years earlier, Daniel had arranged an emergency board meeting. He intended to present evidence of Malcolm’s housing fraud and remove his father as chief executive.

“Daniel gave me copies of the records,” Thomas said. “He wanted federal protection for Mara and a freeze on company accounts.”

“What stopped him?” Evelyn asked.

“Victoria.”

Thomas explained that Victoria discovered the plan and warned Malcolm. By morning, the evidence had vanished from the legal office. Mara’s car was found near the coast. Daniel was told she had been taken because of his attempt.

“Malcolm said the next person would be Evelyn Hart,” Thomas continued.

Evelyn felt the room close around her.

“Why me?”

“Your father.”

Evelyn had been raised by her mother and rarely spoke about the man who abandoned them. She knew only that his name was Richard Hart and that he had once worked in municipal finance.

Thomas opened a drawer and removed an old newspaper clipping.

Richard Hart had been a city auditor assigned to investigate Mercer Community Housing. He died in a highway accident before filing his report.

“Malcolm believed your father made copies,” Thomas said. “He watched your family for years.”

“My mother told me it was an accident.”

“She may not have known otherwise.”

Mara looked at Evelyn with quiet sympathy.

Thomas continued. “Daniel approached you to determine whether you had the records. He was supposed to charm you, gain access to your mother’s house, and search for them.”

Evelyn’s throat tightened. “Did he?”

“No. He told Malcolm there were no records.”

“Were there?”

Thomas looked toward a framed photograph on his desk.

“That depends on whether your mother kept the blue music box.”

Evelyn remembered it immediately: a small wooden box with painted birds, stored for years in the attic of her childhood home.

Her mother had died eight months earlier.

The house had been sold.

Evelyn stood.

“Who bought it?”