Chapter 4 - The Shadow of the Past
The afternoon sun began to dip,
casting long, orange shadows across the mansion’s polished floors.
Julian had fallen into a light sleep after his therapy,
exhaustion finally winning over his restless mind.
Mrs. Gable was busy in the kitchens,
the distant clinking of silver the only sound in the house.
This was my chance.
I slipped back into the library,
my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
The room was dim,
the smell of old books more prominent now.
I walked to the desk,
every creak of the floorboards sounding like a gunshot in the silence.
I reached for the top drawer.
Slowly,
carefully,
I pulled it open.
The silver frame was there,
still face down.
My hand trembled as I reached for it.
What if I was wrong?
What if it was just a photo of a woman he used to love?
A wife?
A life I knew nothing about?
I flipped it over.
My breath hitched in my throat.
It wasn't a photo of a woman.
It was a photo of a small, wooden bridge.
The bridge where we used to meet.
The paint was peeling,
and the wood looked rotten,
but I recognized every knot in the timber.
And there,
carved into the railing,
were two sets of initials.
M + L
My real name was Lucia.
His real name was Mateo.
The initials were surrounded by a carved heart,
half-faded by time and weather.
He had a photo of our bridge.
He had kept it all these years.
Tears pricked at my eyes,
hot and stinging.
He knew.
He hadn't forgotten.
But if he knew, why hadn't he looked for me?
Why had he let me live in poverty,
struggling to keep our children alive,
while he sat in this palace of gold?
"What are you doing?"
The voice was like a whip.
I jumped,
nearly dropping the frame.
Julian was in the doorway,
his motorized chair whirring softly as he moved into the room.
His face was a mask of fury.
"I... I was just cleaning," I stammered,
trying to tuck the frame back into the drawer.
"Don't lie to me!" he roared.
The power in his voice was terrifying.
"You were snooping. You were looking at things that don't belong to you."
He moved closer,
the light from the window catching the anger in his eyes.
"I hired you to be a caregiver, not a detective."
"I'm sorry," I said,
tears finally spilling over.
"I just... I saw the photo. It looked familiar."
"Familiar?" he spat.
"How could a bridge in the middle of nowhere be familiar to a girl from Chicago?"
I looked at him,
really looked at him.
The anger in his eyes wasn't just rage.
It was pain.
Raw,
unfiltered pain.
"I'm not just a girl from Chicago," I whispered,
the words escaping before I could stop them.
He froze.
The silence in the room became deafening.
"What did you say?" he asked,
his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.
I knew I was on the edge of a cliff.
One more step and there would be no going back.
If I told him the truth,
our lives would change forever.
But I looked at the man in the chair,
the man who had kept a photo of our bridge for twenty years,
and I knew I couldn't keep lying.
"Mateo," I breathed.
The name hung in the air like a ghost.
His entire body seemed to stiffen.
The color drained from his face,
leaving him looking like a statue of white marble.
"How do you know that name?" he hissed.
"How do you know that name?!"
He tried to move his hand,
his fingers twitching with a desperate, frustrated energy.
"It's me," I said,
taking a step toward him.
"It's Lucia."
He stared at me,
his eyes wide with a mixture of horror and disbelief.
"No," he whispered.
"Lucia is dead. I saw her fall. I saw the blood."
"I didn't die," I said,
reaching out to touch his arm.
"The bullet missed my heart. A family found me. They hid me."
He backed his chair away from me,
shaking his head.
"No. This is a trick. Who sent you? Was it the Cartel? Did they send you to finish the job?"
"The Cartel?" I asked,
confused.
"Mateo, I don't know what you're talking about. I've been living in the slums for years. I have two children. Your children."
The air seemed to leave the room.
Julian—Mateo—looked as if I had struck him.
"Children?" he echoed.
The word seemed to break him.
The anger vanished,
replaced by a look of such profound agony that it made my heart bleed.
"I have children?"
"A son and a daughter," I said,
sobbing now.
"Brandon and Emma. Brandon looks just like you."
He closed his eyes,
a single tear tracking down his cheek.
"They're alive," he whispered.
"You're alive."
But then, his eyes snapped open,
and the terror was back.
"You have to leave," he said,
his voice urgent.
"You have to get out of here right now."
"What? Why?"
"Because I'm not Julian Bennett," he said.
"I'm a prisoner. And the people who are holding me... they're the same people who shot you."
He looked toward the door,
his expression haunted.
"If they find out who you are, they won't just kill you. They'll kill the children."
I felt a cold chill wash over me.
The mansion wasn't a palace.
It wasn't even a cage.
May you like
It was a trap.
And I had just walked right into the center of it.
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