“It’s been six months,” he continued, his voice cracking. “Six months since you left this world, and I still can’t breathe, right? Nicole thinks I’m working late. Mom thinks I’m at the gym. Nobody knows I come here twice a week talking to a piece of granite like it can bring you back.” My mind raced. Six months ago was April. Albert had been distracted that spring. I remembered him being distant. Nicole had mentioned he’d been stressed about work, but I’d sensed something deeper. A mother knows.

“Your father destroyed us,” Albert’s voice made me flinch. “Franklin Stone with his money and his threats and his perfect future son-in-law all picked out. He made sure I was nothing. Remember? Just some poor kid with big dreams and empty pockets. Not good enough for his daughter. Not worthy of the Stone name.”

Stone. The name hit me like a physical blow. Franklin Stone owned half of Milbrook County—the textile mills, the shopping centers, the new hospital wing. He sat on every board, chaired every committee, had dinner with senators and governors. And his daughter.

“I heard about the funeral,” Albert whispered. “I wanted to come, but how could I? Your husband was there, Richard Bradford, the man your father chose for you, the man you married instead of me. Everyone said what a devoted husband he was, standing there in his thousand-dollar suit, accepting condolences. Did they know? Did anyone know how miserable you were?”

I crept closer, moving from monument to monument like a spy in some absurd thriller. But this was real. This was my son, grieving a woman I’d never heard him mention, speaking of a past I knew nothing about.

Albert dropped to his knees in the grass and I heard him sob. “I met him. Your son. I saw him at the funeral from across the street. Catherine, he has your eyes. Your beautiful eyes. And he’s five years old, exactly the age he’d be if…” His voice broke completely. The world tilted. A five-year-old son. The timeline crashed through my mind with brutal clarity.

Albert had dated someone seriously about six years ago before Nicole. He’d been devastated when it ended, locked himself in his apartment for weeks, lost fifteen pounds. When he finally emerged, he refused to discuss it, said only that it wasn’t meant to be and that we should never bring it up again. Within a year, he’d married Nicole—a perfectly suitable girl from a perfectly suitable family, a marriage that looked right on paper but had always felt hollow to me.

“They won’t let me near him,” Albert said, his voice hardening. “Franklin made sure of that. Even with you gone, even with Richard Bradford acting like the grieving widower, your father controls everything. He’s got custody of my son, Catherine. Our son, and I can’t do a thing about it because I have no proof, no legal standing, nothing but this hole in my chest where my heart used to be.”

A sound escaped my throat—half gasp, half cry. Albert’s head snapped up. For a terrible moment, our eyes met across the rows of graves. His face went white, then red, then white again. “Mom.” I stepped out from behind the monument, my legs barely supporting me.

“Albert, I was bringing flowers to your father and I saw your car.”

“How long have you been standing there?” His voice was sharp. Defensive. Nothing like the broken whisper of moments before.

“Long enough,” I said. My voice surprised me with its steadiness. “Long enough to know you have a son—my grandson. Long enough to know Catherine has been dead for six months. Long enough to know Franklin Stone took something precious from you.”

Albert’s face crumpled. He looked suddenly young, like the boy he’d been at twenty, before life had taught him to hide everything behind a wall of careful composure. “Don’t,” he said. “Please, Mom. Just don’t.”

But I couldn’t stop. Twenty years as a librarian had trained me to gather information, to piece together stories from fragments. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you fight for him?”

“With what?” The desperation in his voice cut through me. “Franklin Stone threatened to destroy me if I came near Catherine. He had investigators follow me. He made sure I lost my job at Patterson Engineering. He warned every company in three counties not to hire me. That’s why I work in Hartford now, sixty miles away, the only place beyond his reach. And Catherine, she begged me to leave her alone. Mom. She said her father would make both our lives miserable, that she’d married Richard Bradford for security, for peace. She said the baby was Richard’s. Even though I knew, I knew, but now she’s gone,” I said softly. “And your son, Timothy…”

His voice broke on the name. “She named him Timothy. Richard Bradford is raising him as his own. Franklin Stone is grooming him to be the next heir to the family empire. And I’m nobody. Just a mechanical engineer with no proof of paternity. No money for lawyers who could stand up to Stone’s legal team. And a wife who doesn’t even know this child exists.”

The pieces were falling into place with terrifying speed. “Nicole doesn’t know?”

“How could I tell her? We were already engaged when I found out Catherine had a baby. I saw the announcement in the paper: ‘Richard and Catherine Bradford welcome their son Timothy.’ The dates—God, Mom—the dates lined up perfectly with when Catherine and I were together, but she’d married Richard four months into the pregnancy. Quick, quiet ceremony. The society pages said it was an intimate family affair.”

I moved closer, my hand reaching for my son. “Albert, if this child is yours, if…”

He laughed bitterly. “I know he’s mine. I feel it here.” He pressed his fist against his chest. “But feeling isn’t proof. Franklin Stone made sure Richard Bradford’s name is on the birth certificate. Made sure Catherine signed every document declaring Richard the father. Made sure I was erased from the picture completely.”

“DNA testing,” I said. “That’s scientific proof. That’s undeniable.”

“Which requires access to the child,” Albert countered. “Which requires filing a petition with the court, which requires a lawyer, which costs money I don’t have. Not the kind of money needed to fight Stone’s attorneys. They’d bury me in paperwork and motions and delays. And even if I somehow proved paternity, who do you think the courts would favor? A mechanical engineer making eighty thousand a year or one of the wealthiest, most powerful families in New England?”

The wind picked up, scattering leaves across the graves. I looked at the headstone before us. “Catherine Stone, beloved daughter, loving mother. 1988–2025. Until we meet again.” She’d been only thirty-seven, younger than Albert by two years.

“How did she die?”

“Car accident,” Albert’s voice was hollow. “Single vehicle collision on Route 47 late at night. The police report said she lost control on a curve. But Catherine was the most careful driver I ever knew. She never sped, never took risks. And that stretch of road, she’d driven it a thousand times.”

A chill ran through me that had nothing to do with the October wind. “You think it wasn’t an accident?”

“I think Catherine was miserable. I think she’d been trapped in a loveless marriage for five years. I think Franklin Stone controls everything and everyone in his orbit. And I think asking questions about Catherine’s death would be very, very dangerous.”

The fear in his voice was real, palpable. This wasn’t grief alone. This was terror. My son was afraid of Franklin Stone. Genuinely afraid.

“Albert,” I said carefully. “If this little boy is your son, our family, we can’t just abandon him. We can’t let fear—”

“It’s not just fear, Mom.” He grabbed my arms, his grip almost painful. “Listen to me. Two weeks after Catherine died, I received a phone call. No number, no identification. A man’s voice said, ‘Albert Ashford, you will not make inquiries about the Bradford family. You will not attempt contact with the child. You will not speak to the press. If you do, accidents happen. Careers end. Families suffer.’ Then he hung up.”

My blood ran cold. “That’s a threat. That’s illegal.”

“It’s untraceable. And it’s real. The next day, someone broke into my car. Nothing was stolen, but every family photo I kept in the glove box—photos with you, with Dad, with Nicole’s parents—were spread across the dashboard. A message. We know who matters to you. We can reach them.”

I thought of my small house on Maple Street. The house Robert and I had bought forty years ago. The house where I lived alone now, where I felt safe in my routine of library shifts and garden club meetings and grocery shopping every Thursday. The illusion of safety shattered like glass.

“So you’ve done nothing,” I said. “For six months you’ve grieved in secret and done nothing.”

“What choice did I have?” The anguish in his voice was unbearable. “Take on Franklin Stone and risk everything. Risk you? Risk Nicole, even if our marriage isn’t perfect. Stone has judges in his pocket. Police chiefs, state representatives. He’s untouchable.”

“No one is untouchable,” I said, surprised by the steel in my own voice. “And that little boy, Timothy, he’s family. He deserves to know his real father. He deserves better than being raised by people who threatened and manipulated his mother. Who might have—” I couldn’t finish the sentence.

Albert’s eyes met mine, and I saw something shift in them—hope, maybe, or recognition. “Mom, you don’t understand what you’re saying. These aren’t people you challenge. These are people who destroy obstacles.”

“Then we’ll be very careful,” I said. “We’ll be smart about this. But I’m not walking away from my grandson.”

The groundskeeper’s mower had moved closer. The sound was intrusive in our bubble of secrecy. Albert looked around nervously, then pulled me away from Catherine’s grave toward a more isolated area behind a maintenance shed.

“If we do this,” he said, his voice low and urgent, “we can’t tell Nicole. Not yet. She’d never understand. She’d think I cheated on her. Or worse, that I’ve been lying to her our whole marriage.”

“Haven’t you been?” The question came out harsher than I intended.

“Yes.” His honesty was brutal. “But if she finds out before we have a plan, before we have something concrete, she’ll leave me. And Stone could use a divorce, use family instability as ammunition to prove I’m unfit.”

He was right and I hated it. “So, we investigate quietly. We gather information. We find proof.”

“We’d need Catherine’s medical records from the pregnancy. We’d need to establish timeline proof that she and I were together. We’d need to document that she was forced into marriage with Bradford. And then we’d need money, serious money, for lawyers who aren’t afraid of Franklin Stone.”

“One step at a time,” I said, my mind already racing ahead. Twenty years as a librarian had taught me research skills most people didn’t appreciate. I knew how to find information, how to follow paper trails, how to be patient and thorough. “First, we need to know everything about Catherine’s life in the last six years. Who her doctors were, who her friends were, whether she left any documentation of her true feelings.”

“Her friend Emily,” Albert said suddenly. “Emily Thornton. She and Catherine were close. Roommates in college. She might know something.”

“Then we start with Emily.” I pulled out my phone, making a note. “What else? Think, Albert. What leverage do we have?”

“Catherine’s mother died when she was sixteen,” he said slowly, brow furrowed in concentration. “She was never close to her father after that. She used to talk about her mother’s things being stored in a locked room at the Stone Estate. Personal items, journals. Franklin never let her access them. He said it was too painful. But Catherine thought—”

“Thought what?”

“That there were things in there he didn’t want her to see. Things about the family, about her mother’s death.”

Another suspicious death in the Stone family. The pattern was forming, ugly and clear. “We need to get into that room.”

“The estate has security,” Albert said. “Cameras, guards, the works. It’s a fortress.”

“Fortresses have weaknesses,” I said. “People have routines. Security has blind spots. There’s always a way.”

Albert stared at me like he’d never seen me before. “Mom, who are you right now?”

I smiled, though there was no humor in it. “I’m a grandmother who just found out she has a five-year-old grandson being raised by people who terrorize anyone who challenges them. I’m a mother who’s watched her son suffer in silence for six years. I’m a woman who spent her whole life being polite and careful and appropriate and I’m tired of it. Sometimes, Albert, being nice isn’t enough.”

He was quiet for a long moment, studying my face. Then slowly, he nodded. “Okay, but we have to be careful. If Stone finds out we’re digging—”

“Then we don’t let him find out,” I said simply. “We’re quiet, we’re smart, and we don’t give up until Timothy knows his real father.”

As we walked back toward our cars, I felt something unfamiliar stirring in my chest—purpose, determination, perhaps even a touch of righteous anger. Franklin Stone had spent years controlling lives, manipulating outcomes, crushing anyone who stood in his way. He’d never faced a sixty-three-year-old librarian with nothing to lose and everything to fight for. The game was beginning, whether he knew it yet or not, and I intended to win.

The next morning, I sat at my kitchen table with a fresh notebook and a cup of tea that had gone cold an hour ago. Sunlight streamed through the lace curtains Robert’s mother had made, illuminating the list I’d been building since five a.m. Emily Thornton was my first priority, but finding her contact information proved harder than expected. Social media searches turned up three Emily Thorntons in the region, none with profiles that matched someone who’d been Catherine’s college roommate. I was reaching for my phone to call Albert when it rang. Nicole’s name flashed on the screen.

“Hi, Helen.” My daughter-in-law’s voice was tight, artificially bright. “I hope I’m not calling too early.”

“Not at all, dear. I’ve been up for hours.”

“Listen, I wanted to invite you for dinner tonight. Just family. Albert’s been so distant lately, and I thought maybe having you there would help him relax. You know how he is. He won’t talk to me. But sometimes he opens up around you.”

Guilt twisted in my stomach. Nicole had no idea why her husband was distant, and I was now complicit in his secret. “Tonight might be difficult. I have a library board meeting that could run late.”

“Tomorrow then,” she said, desperation in her voice. “Please, Helen. Something’s wrong with Albert and I don’t know how to reach him. He disappears for hours, claims he’s working, but his boss called last week looking for him. He’s lying to me and I need to know why.”

My hand tightened on the phone. Nicole was already suspicious, already asking questions. If she pushed too hard, if she discovered the truth before we had a strategy, everything could collapse. “Let me talk to him,” I said carefully. “Sometimes men just need space to work through things.”

“It’s been six months of space,” Nicole snapped. Then, more quietly, “I’m sorry. I’m just worried. He’s not himself because he’s grieving a woman he loved and a son he can’t claim,” I thought. But I said, “I’ll come tomorrow. Six o’clock.”

After she hung up, I stared at my notebook. The dinner was a complication, but also an opportunity. I needed to observe Albert and Nicole together, assess how much danger we were in of her discovering the truth prematurely.

My phone buzzed with a text from Albert. “Found Emily’s number. She agreed to meet you. Today, noon, Riverside Cafe. Go alone. She’s nervous.”

An hour later, I was parked outside the cafe, watching a slender woman with auburn hair pace near the entrance. She looked about thirty-five, professionally dressed in navy slacks and a cream blouse, checking her phone every few seconds. When I approached, her eyes darted around the parking lot before she extended her hand.

“Mrs. Ashford,” she whispered.

“Call me Helen.” I shook her hand, noting the tremor in her fingers. “Thank you for meeting me.”

Inside, we chose a corner booth far from other patrons. Emily ordered coffee, didn’t touch it, fingers twisting a paper napkin into shreds. “Albert said you know about Catherine and Timothy.” She whispered, “I shouldn’t be talking to you. If Franklin finds out—”

“How would he find out?” I kept my voice calm, reassuring. “This is just two women having coffee.”

“Franklin has people everywhere.” Emily’s eyes were wide with genuine fear. “After Catherine died, he had investigators interview all her friends. They asked questions about her marriage, her state of mind, whether she’d been in contact with anyone from her past. It was framed as routine, gathering information for the estate, but it felt like interrogation.”

“Did you tell them about Albert?”

“God, no.” She shuddered. “Catherine made me swear never to mention his name to anyone. She said it would put him in danger. She said her father had already destroyed Albert’s career once and would do worse if he knew they’d reconnected.”

My pulse quickened. “They reconnected? When?”

Emily glanced around again, then leaned closer. “About a year before she died, it was an accident. They ran into each other at a medical conference in Boston. Albert was there for some engineering presentation. Catherine was accompanying Richard to a pharmaceutical convention. They talked for maybe ten minutes in the hotel lobby, but it was enough. She called me that night crying, saying seeing him again had broken something open inside her.”

“Did they meet again?”

“Twice. Once for coffee, once for a walk in a park in Hartford, somewhere far from Milbrook where no one would recognize her. She told him the truth about Timothy. She showed him pictures. Albert wanted to fight for custody, wanted to take it to court, but Catherine begged him not to. She said Franklin would bury him in legal fees and destroy what was left of his life. She said the only way Timothy would ever be safe was if Albert stayed away.”

The coffee in my stomach turned acidic. “Safe from what?”

Emily’s voice dropped to barely a whisper. “Catherine was terrified of her father. She never said it explicitly, but I got the impression—Helen, I think Franklin killed her mother. I think Catherine knew or suspected and that’s why she was so afraid.”

The cafe suddenly felt too warm, too small. “Why would he kill his own wife?”

“Because she wanted to leave him. Catherine told me once that her mother had filed for divorce when Catherine was fifteen. The papers were drawn up. The settlement was negotiated. Her mother was going to take Catherine and move to California. Start over. Then she got sick. Aggressive cancer. Diagnosed stage four seemingly overnight. Dead within three months. Catherine said her mother had just had a full physical the month before. Completely healthy. Then suddenly terminal.”

“You think he poisoned her?”

“I think Franklin Stone is a man who doesn’t accept losing. And I think Catherine figured that out too late.” Emily’s hands were shaking badly now. “The night before Catherine died, she called me. It was late, maybe eleven. She sounded strange, not drunk, but off somehow. She said, ‘M, if anything happens to me, promise you’ll make sure Timothy knows the truth about his father someday. Promise me Albert won’t be erased.’ I thought she was being dramatic. She’d been depressed since Timothy started school, talking about how trapped she felt. I told her to get some sleep, that we’d talk in the morning. But there was no morning. By noon the next day, she was dead.”

The implications crashed over me like a wave. “You think Franklin killed Catherine, too?”

“I think Catherine threatened to leave Richard. I think she told her father she wanted a divorce, that she was going to tell Timothy the truth about Albert. And I think Franklin solved the problem the way he always does—by eliminating it.”

Emily’s eyes filled with tears. “But I can’t prove any of it. The police ruled it an accident. The autopsy showed nothing suspicious. Richard Bradford played the devastated widower perfectly. And Franklin got custody of Timothy without a single legal challenge because he’d made sure Albert Ashford legally didn’t exist.”

“Where are Catherine’s personal belongings?” I asked. “Her computer, her journals, her phone.”

“Franklin took everything from her house the day after the funeral. He said he was preserving it for Timothy, keeping his mother’s memory safe. But Richard told people at the service that Franklin had already moved most of Catherine’s things to the estate weeks before her death. Like he was preparing a new secret, uglier than the last.”

Franklin Stone hadn’t just separated Catherine and Albert. He’d potentially murdered his own wife and daughter to maintain control. And now he had Timothy, shaping a five-year-old child in his own image.

“Emily, would you be willing to sign a statement about what Catherine told you? About Albert being Timothy’s father?”

Fear flashed across her face. “And make myself Franklin’s next target? I have a husband, Helen. I have two daughters. I can’t put them at risk.”

“Then help me another way. Where would Catherine have hidden something she didn’t want Franklin to find? Evidence. Proof of Timothy’s paternity.”

Emily bit her lip, thinking. “There was one place—her mother’s studio. It’s in a converted carriage house on the Stone estate, separate from the main house. Catherine used to go there sometimes when her father was away on business. She said it was the only place on the property where she felt close to her mother, where she could breathe. Franklin never goes there. I think it reminds him of his wife too much.”

“How would I get inside?”

“You can’t. The estate is locked down. There’s a gate with security. Cameras everywhere. Patrol guards at night. You’d need access codes, keys, an invitation. It’s impossible.”

I smiled grimly. “There’s always a way. Does Franklin ever leave the estate for extended periods?”

“He’s on the board of directors for three hospitals and two universities. He attends conferences, flies to board meetings, but even when he’s gone, Richard Bradford lives in the main house with Timothy. And Richard’s loyal to Franklin, completely under his thumb.”

“What about household staff? Catherine must have had help with Timothy.”

Emily’s eyes widened slightly. “Mary Brightwell. She was Timothy’s nanny from birth until Catherine died. Franklin dismissed her right after the funeral, said Timothy didn’t need a nanny anymore, that he’d arrange for proper tutors and governesses. But Mary adored Catherine. She was more than staff. She was family. Catherine trusted her with everything.”

“Do you know where Mary is now?”

“She moved back to her family in Vermont, I think, or maybe New Hampshire. I remember Catherine saying Mary came from a small town up north, somewhere rural.”

A new lead, but also a new obstacle—finding a woman who’d left the state, who might not want to talk, who could also be too frightened of Franklin to help. But I had to try.

I thanked Emily and walked back to my car, my mind racing through the information. As I reached for my door handle, I noticed something tucked under the windshield wiper—a plain white envelope, no markings. Inside was a single sheet of paper with typed words: “Curiosity killed the cat. Some graves are best left undisturbed. This is your only warning.”

My hands didn’t shake as I read it. Instead, a cold clarity settled over me. Someone had followed me to the cafe. Someone had watched me meet with Emily. Someone wanted me frightened enough to stop asking questions, which meant we were on to something real.

I pulled out my phone and texted Albert. “They know. We need to move faster.”

His response came thirty seconds later. “Mom, please walk away. It’s too dangerous.”

I typed back, “I’m going to Vermont to find Mary Brightwell. Tell Nicole I’m visiting my college friend Ruth for a few days.”

“Mom, no.”

But I was already starting the engine.

Twenty minutes later, I was home throwing clothes into an overnight bag when someone pounded on my front door. Through the peephole, I saw Albert, his face flushed with anger and fear. I let him in and he immediately grabbed my shoulders.

“You can’t do this. That note is a direct threat. They’re watching you now. If you go to Vermont, if you find Mary, they’ll know. They’ll hurt you to get to me, to scare us into silence.”

“Then we’ll be careful,” I said, pulling away to continue packing. “Albert, we have seventy-two hours before I’m supposed to have dinner with you and Nicole. That’s seventy-two hours to find something, anything that gives us leverage. After that, Nicole’s going to demand answers you can’t give her, and this whole thing might blow apart.”

“Better it blows apart than you end up like Catherine.” The words hung between us, stark and terrifying. But I’d already made my decision.

“I’m sixty-three years old. I’ve lived a careful, quiet, safe life. I raised you, supported your father, worked my library job, did everything right and proper and expected. And where has it gotten me? To a place where my only grandson is being raised by people who might be murderers and my son is too afraid to claim his own child.”

“Mom, no.”

My voice was firm, brooking no argument. “You asked me who I am now. I’m someone who’s done being afraid. I’m going to Vermont. I’m going to find Mary Brightwell and I’m going to get the information we need to prove Timothy is yours and that Franklin Stone is exactly what we think he is—a man who kills people who get in his way.”

Albert stared at me for a long moment and I saw the exact instant he recognized that I couldn’t be dissuaded.

“Then I’m coming with you.”

“No, you need to stay here. Maintain your routine. Keep Nicole from getting suspicious. I need you to research everything you can find about Franklin’s business dealings, his associates, anyone who might have a grudge or inside information. I need you to create a timeline of Catherine’s last year—everywhere she went, everyone she saw. Can you do that?”

He nodded slowly, reluctantly. “What if something happens to you?”

“Then you’ll have to finish this without me.” I zipped my bag closed. “But nothing’s going to happen. I’m just a harmless old woman visiting an old friend. Who would suspect me of anything?”

As I drove north on I-91 an hour later, my rearview mirror clear of any obvious tails, I replayed that question in my mind. Who would suspect me? Franklin Stone would, apparently, because someone had left that note. Someone was already watching, which meant the real game was just beginning. And I’d just made myself a player Franklin couldn’t ignore.

The address I’d found for Mary Brightwell led me to a weathered farmhouse outside Melier, Vermont, four hours north of Milbrook. The property sat at the end of a gravel road surrounded by pine trees turning dark in the late afternoon light. Smoke curled from the chimney and a rusted pickup truck sat in the driveway. I’d called ahead using a number from an online directory, claiming to be a friend of Catherine’s who wanted to share memories. The woman who answered had been hesitant but ultimately agreed to meet.

Mary Brightwell opened the door before I could knock. She was in her fifties with gray-streaked brown hair pulled into a bun and eyes that had seen too much sorrow.

“Mrs. Ashford.” Her voice was cautious.

“Thank you for seeing me,” I said. “I know this is unexpected.”

She studied me for a long moment, then stepped aside. “Come in. Coffee’s on.”

The farmhouse interior was modest, but warm. Handmade quilts, family photos on the mantle, a wood stove radiating heat. Mary poured two cups of coffee and gestured to a worn sofa.

“You said you were Catherine’s friend, but I never saw you at the house, and I knew all her friends.”

No point in lying. “I’m Albert Ashford’s mother. Catherine’s—the man she loved before Richard Bradford.”

Mary’s cup froze halfway to her lips. Then slowly she set it down. “Albert, yes. She talked about him sometimes. When Mr. Stone wasn’t around. She said he was the only man she ever really loved.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Why are you here?”

“Because my grandson is being raised by people who terrorized his mother. Because Albert has a right to his son. And because I think Franklin Stone murdered Catherine just like he murdered his wife.”

I expected shock, denial, anger. Instead, Mary simply nodded. “So, you know.”

The confirmation hit me like a physical blow. “You believe he killed her?”

“I know he did.” Mary’s voice was flat, resigned. “Catherine told me three days before she died. She came to my quarters at the estate. It was late, past midnight. She was terrified. She said her father had given her an ultimatum—stay married to Richard and raise Timothy according to Franklin’s vision, or lose her son entirely. He threatened to have her declared an unfit mother. Said he had doctors who’d testify she was mentally unstable, suicidal even. He’d fabricated a history of depression, had records altered, prescriptions issued under her name for medications she’d never taken.”

“That’s fraud. That’s conspiracy. That’s power.”

Mary’s hands trembled as she picked up her coffee again. “Franklin Stone owns people—judges, doctors, police chiefs. Catherine knew if she fought him in court, she’d lose Timothy anyway and probably end up institutionalized. So, she made a different plan. She told me she was going to run. She’d been secretly moving money into an offshore account for months. Small amounts Richard wouldn’t notice. She had a friend in Canada who’d offered her a place to stay. She was going to take Timothy and disappear.”

My heart was racing. “Did she tell Franklin?”

“She must have because two days later she was dead.” Mary’s voice cracked. “The police said she lost control on a curve. But Catherine drove that road every day. She knew every turn, every pothole. And the autopsy…”

She stopped, pressing her lips together. “What about the autopsy?”

“It showed high levels of sedatives in her system. The police concluded she’d been taking anti-anxiety medication, and it affected her driving. But Catherine didn’t take medication. She was afraid of it. Afraid of being drugged and controlled. I’d bet my life those pills were forced on her or slipped into her food.”

“Did you tell the police your suspicions?”

Mary laughed bitterly. “The chief of police plays golf with Franklin Stone twice a month. The medical examiner’s office received a million-dollar donation from the Stone Foundation last year. Who was I going to tell? And what proof did I have except a late-night conversation and my gut feeling?”

“But you’re willing to tell me?”

“Because you’re Albert’s mother. Because Timothy deserves to know his real father. And because…” She stood abruptly, walking to a bookshelf in the corner. She pulled down a thick photo album and brought it back, flipping through pages until she found what she wanted. “Because Catherine gave me this.”

She handed me a photograph. It showed Catherine holding a newborn baby, her face radiant despite obvious exhaustion. Standing beside her, his hand on her shoulder, was Albert. The resemblance was unmistakable—the same dark hair, the same shape of face, the same eyes looking at the camera with a mixture of joy and terror.

“When was this taken?” My voice was barely a whisper.

“The day after Timothy was born. Richard was away on a business trip. Convenient timing arranged by Franklin, I’m sure. Albert drove down from Hartford at three a.m. after I called him. Catherine had asked me, too. She wanted him to meet his son. Wanted proof that Timothy was his. They had maybe four hours together before Richard was due back. Albert held that baby like he was made of glass. Catherine cried the whole time. Then he had to leave. And Catherine had to pretend she’d spent the night alone with just me for help.”

I stared at the photo, memorizing every detail. “This is proof. This shows Albert was there, that Catherine wanted him involved.”

“It’s proof of a visit. Nothing more. It doesn’t prove paternity in a legal sense. But Catherine knew that, which is why she gave me something else.” Mary reached into her pocket and pulled out a small envelope. “She gave me this the night she told me she was planning to run. She said, ‘If anything happens to me, find Albert Ashford and give him this. Tell him Timothy needs to know the truth.’”

My hands shook as I opened the envelope. Inside was a single sheet of paper, a handwritten letter in elegant script.

Albert, if you’re reading this, I’m gone. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I wasn’t strong enough to stand up to my father six years ago. I’m sorry I let him bully me into marrying Richard. I’m sorry I stole five years of our son’s life from you. Timothy is yours. He has your eyes, your smile, your gentle heart. Every time I look at him, I see the man I should have married. The life we should have had. I’ve attached a lock of his hair from his first haircut. If you ever need to prove paternity, this will help with DNA testing. My father is a monster. I’ve finally admitted that to myself. He killed my mother when she tried to leave him. And he’ll kill me, too, if I try to take Timothy away. But I have to try. I have to save our son from becoming another Franklin Stone. If you’re reading this, it means I failed. It means my father won. Please don’t let him win forever. Fight for Timothy. Love him. Tell him his mother loved him more than life itself. Tell him she tried. Forever yours, Catherine.

Tears blurred my vision. The envelope also contained a small plastic bag with a lock of baby-fine dark hair, carefully preserved.

“DNA evidence,” I whispered. “This is what we need.”

“It’s also a death warrant if Franklin finds out it exists,” Mary said quietly. “Catherine made me swear to keep it hidden until I could safely give it to Albert. That’s why I moved back here. Why I’ve stayed off social media. Why I haven’t contacted anyone from the estate. Franklin has people looking for anything Catherine might have left behind. He knows she was planning something. I think that’s why he acted when he did.”

“How did you escape his notice?”

“I didn’t entirely. Two weeks after I moved back here, someone broke into my house while I was at the grocery store. Nothing was stolen, but my bedroom had been searched. Drawers emptied. Mattress moved, closet ransacked. A message. We know where you are.