Chapter 2 - THE DUSTY OFFICE AND THE SILVER WATCH
The heavy green door groaned in protest as I pushed it open. It hadn't been oiled in over a decade.
The air inside was thick and stale, smelling of old paper and dried cedar. I reached out in the dark, my hand finding the familiar brass pull-chain of the desk lamp exactly where I had left it fifteen years ago.
The bulb flickered, casting a warm yellow pool over a massive oak desk.
Grant stood frozen in the doorway, the blood completely drained from his face. Behind him, Maya, the young hostess, peered into the room with wide eyes.
"How did you do that?" Grant demanded, his voice dropping into a panicked whisper. "Nobody has a key to this room. Mr. Bellamy explicitly ordered it sealed."
"Richard ordered it sealed because he couldn't legally change the locks without invalidating the master deed," I said.
I stepped fully into the room.
Nothing had changed. The leather chair was cracked. The bookshelves were lined with old culinary journals. And there, sitting right in the center of the desk, was a framed photograph covered in a thick layer of dust.
I reached out and wiped the glass.
It was a picture of me, fifteen years younger, standing in front of this very restaurant with my arm around a beautiful young woman. My daughter, Clara.
"Who are you?" Maya asked softly, stepping past Grant.
"My name is Elias Thorne," I said.
Maya gasped. Her hand flew to her mouth.
Even Grant stumbled backward, his arrogance completely dissolving into terror. "Elias Thorne? That’s impossible. Elias Thorne went to federal prison. He died."
"I went to prison," I corrected, my voice cold and steady. "I didn't die. Though Richard certainly paid enough people to ensure the rumors said otherwise."
Fifteen years ago, I had built this restaurant from a corner soup kitchen into the finest dining establishment in Chicago. And fifteen years ago, my business partner, Richard Bellamy, had framed me for massive tax fraud, using offshore accounts tied to my name. I took the fall to protect my daughter, who Richard had threatened to implicate as an accomplice.
"Get out," Grant stammered, pulling his phone from his pocket. "I’m calling the police. You’re trespassing."
"Am I?"
I walked around the oak desk and pulled open the bottom drawer. It was stuck, warped by time, but a hard yank freed it.
I reached all the way to the back and pulled out a heavy, tarnished silver pocket watch.
I tossed it onto the desk. It landed with a heavy, metallic thud.
Grant stared at it.
"Call them," I challenged. "Call the police, Grant. Let’s have them open this watch. Because inside the casing is the original microfilm of Richard Bellamy’s dual ledgers from 2011. The ones proving he stole three million dollars from the employee pension fund and blamed me."
Grant’s hands shook so badly he nearly dropped his phone.
He didn't call the police.
He dialed a private number.
"Mr. Bellamy," Grant said, his voice cracking. "You need to come down here right now. Someone is in the old office."
Grant paused, listening to the voice on the other end.
"I can't just throw him out, sir," Grant whispered, his eyes locked onto me in pure terror. "He opened the door. It's Elias Thorne."
The line went dead.
I picked up the silver pocket watch, my thumb tracing the engraved initials on the back. E.T.
But Maya wasn't looking at me. She was staring at the photograph on the desk. The picture of my daughter, Clara.
Maya stepped forward, her hands trembling as she reached toward the frame.
"Where did you get this picture?" she whispered, tears suddenly welling in her eyes.
"That's my daughter," I said gently.
May you like
Maya looked up at me, her face pale, her lips trembling.
"That's my mother," Maya said. "And she told me my grandfather died in a car crash before I was born."
