Chapter 9 – THE GOLD WATCH TICKING IN THE DARK

I stared at the gold watch in my hand.

It was ticking.

A watch from 1998 shouldn’t be ticking unless someone had wound it recently.

My breath caught in my throat. I read the note again. They don’t know the whole story, Tessa.

Who had put this in my closet? Everyone had been downstairs. The house had been empty while we were at the warehouse.

I shoved the watch and the note into my pocket and grabbed my bag. I ran downstairs.

Vincent was sitting on the leather sofa in the den, letting a private doctor stitch his shoulder. Camille was sitting on the rug near the fire, playing a quiet game of cards with Leo.

“Vincent,” I interrupted, my voice shaking.

He looked up, reading the panic in my face. He waved the doctor away. “Give us a minute.”

I walked over and placed the heavy gold watch on the coffee table.

Vincent’s face drained of color. He reached out with his good arm and picked it up. He traced the engraving. V.R. Sr.

“Where did you find this?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

“In my closet,” I said. “Just now. With this note.”

Vincent read the note. His jaw tightened so hard I thought his teeth would crack.

“My father was wearing this watch the night he died,” Vincent said. “The police said it was missing from the wreckage. They assumed scavengers took it.”

“Someone was in my room tonight,” I said, looking over my shoulder at the dark hallway.

Camille stood up, pulling Leo closer to her legs. “Who else has access to the staff quarters?”

“No one,” Vincent said. He looked at me. “Did your father ever mention this watch? Did he ever mention meeting my father?”

I shook my head violently. “No! My dad is just a mechanic. He never had anything to do with your family until I took this job.”

Vincent stood up. “I need to speak to your father. Right now.”

“It’s 3:00 AM,” I said.

“I don’t care if it’s Christmas morning,” Vincent grabbed his coat over his uninjured shoulder. “We are going to your house.”

We drove through the quiet suburban streets. The sky was just beginning to turn a bruised purple with the approaching dawn.

When we pulled up to my small, single-story house, all the lights were on.

My heart hammered. My dad was an early riser, but not this early.

I ran up the steps and pushed the front door open.

“Dad?” I called out.

The living room was empty. The TV was static.

On the kitchen counter, pinned under a ceramic coffee mug, was a single piece of paper.

It wasn’t a note.

It was a child’s drawing. Stick figures in crayon.

A tall man, a little girl, and a woman. But the woman’s face was violently scratched out with a black marker.

Underneath, in my father’s handwriting, were three words.

“I’m sorry, Tessa.”

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