PART 5 — THE GRAVE THAT HELD THE WRONG MAN
For the first time in twenty years, I was afraid to go home.
Not because someone had threatened me.
Not because Victor was alive.
But because I no longer knew what was real.
The man I had buried beside my mother…
might not have been my father.
I drove back to Maple Street without turning on the radio.
The old pickup rolled slowly through the neighborhood.
The houses looked exactly as they had the day before.
But everything felt different.
Every tree.
Every sidewalk.
Every window.
I suddenly wondered how many secrets were buried beneath those streets.
When I reached my house, Emily was waiting on the porch.
She stood the moment she saw me.
“Dad?”
I got out of the truck.
She studied my face.
“What happened?”
I didn't answer immediately.
Then I said:
“Your uncle called me.”
Her eyes widened.
“Victor?”
I nodded.
“He's alive.”
She covered her mouth.
“And he says Grandpa isn't really buried in that cemetery.”
Emily stared at me.
“What?”
“I don't know what to believe.”
She walked toward me.
“Dad, tell me everything.”
So I did.
I told her about the phone call.
The board meeting.
Daniel.
The documents.
The photograph.
Everything.
When I finished, Emily was silent.
Then she asked:
“What was Grandpa like?”
I looked at her.
“Your grandfather?”
“Yes.”
I hadn't expected the question.
“He was strict.”
“Kind?”
“Sometimes.”
“Did you trust him?”
I looked toward the house.
“No.”
Emily frowned.
“Why?”
“Because even when I was young, I knew he was hiding something.”
* * *
That night, I went into my garage.
Not to repair anything.
To search.
There was one box I hadn't opened in decades.
A wooden box my father had given me the week before he supposedly died.
He had told me:
“Don't open this unless Victor comes back.”
At the time, I thought it was a strange thing to say.
Victor never came back.
So I never opened it.
Until now.
I found the box behind an old cabinet.
Dust covered the lid.
My hands trembled as I opened it.
Inside was a photograph.
Two boys.
Victor and me.
Standing beside our father.
But there was something strange about the picture.
A fourth person had been cut out.
Someone had deliberately removed part of the photograph.
Beneath it was a letter.
My father's handwriting.
I unfolded it.
Only six words were written.
“Trust no one in the family.”
I read it again.
Then again.
My phone suddenly vibrated.
Unknown number.
I answered.
Victor's voice returned.
“You found the box.”
I froze.
“How do you know?”
“Because I put it there.”
“You?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Twenty years ago.”
My grip tightened around the phone.
“You knew I'd find it?”
“I hoped you would.”
“What happened to our father?”
Victor was silent.
Then he said:
“You need to stop calling him our father.”
“Who was he?”
“A man who stole everything from us.”
“What did he steal?”
“Our name.”
I didn't understand.
Victor continued.
“Before Anderson Holdings existed, there was another company.”
I looked at the old documents.
“What company?”
“Mercer Industries.”
My heart stopped.
I knew that name.
Every businessman did.
Mercer Industries had once been one of the largest private companies in the country.
It collapsed twenty-two years ago.
Its founder died shortly afterward.
At least, that's what history said.
“That's impossible.”
“No.”
Victor's voice became quieter.
“It's the truth.”
“Are you saying Dad stole Mercer Industries?”
“Not just stole it.”
He paused.
“He killed the man who owned it.”
I couldn't speak.
Victor continued.
“And then he changed his name.”
My eyes moved to the photograph.
The man standing beside us.
My father.
Or whoever he was.
“Who was he?”
Victor answered:
“Jonathan Mercer.”
I dropped the phone.
For several seconds, I simply stared at the floor.
Jonathan Mercer.
The name appeared in every business history book I had ever read.
The founder of Mercer Industries.
A billionaire who supposedly died in an accident.
A man whose company vanished almost overnight.
And somehow…
that man had been standing in my childhood photographs.
Living in our house.
Calling himself my father.
* * *
The next morning, I went to the cemetery.
The sun was barely above the horizon.
I stood in front of the grave.
ROBERT ANDERSON
The name stared back at me.
But now I wondered.
Who was Robert Anderson?
Was he my father?
Or was he simply another identity?
I knelt beside the grave.
Then I noticed something.
The stone had been replaced.
Fresh cement.
Fresh lettering.
But beneath the stone, near the bottom edge, was a small metal plate.
I had never seen it before.
I brushed away the dirt.
There were four numbers engraved on it.
11-04-1987.
A date.
I recognized it instantly.
The day Mercer Industries had transferred ownership of its largest division.
The day my father had supposedly started his first business.
My heart began pounding.
Someone had buried a clue here.
And they wanted me to find it.
* * *
I called Daniel.
He answered immediately.
“Rick?”
“Where are you?”
“At home.”
“Come to the cemetery.”
Silence.
Then:
“Why?”
“Because I found something.”
He arrived twenty minutes later.
When he saw the grave, his face went pale.
“You shouldn't have come here.”
“Why?”
He stared at the metal plate.
“Because Victor warned me.”
“What did he warn you about?”
Daniel looked around.
“Someone has been watching this grave.”
“Who?”
“I don't know.”
I stepped closer.
“Daniel, tell me the truth.”
He looked at me.
Then whispered:
“Your father didn't die twenty-two years ago.”
I felt my blood run cold.
“What?”
“He disappeared.”
“Where?”
“I don't know.”
“Then who died?”
Daniel swallowed.
“A man who looked enough like him to fool everyone.”
I stared at the grave.
“Then who arranged the funeral?”
Daniel looked directly at me.
“Your father.”
I felt dizzy.
“That's impossible.”
“No.”
Daniel shook his head.
“And that's not the worst part.”
“What could possibly be worse?”
He reached into his coat and handed me a photograph.
It showed three men standing outside a building.
My father.
Victor.
And another man.
I stared at the third face.
I knew him.
He was the man who had signed my original inheritance documents.
The man who had attended my father's funeral.
The man who had been my family's attorney for thirty years.
Daniel whispered:
“That's the man Victor has been trying to find.”
I looked at him.
“Why?”
“Because he knows where the real body is.”
I stared at the photograph.
Then my phone rang.
Victor.
I answered.
His voice was barely above a whisper.
“Rick…”
“What?”
“Leave the cemetery.”
“Why?”
“Because they know you found the grave.”
I turned around.
At the end of the cemetery road stood a black SUV.
Its engine was running.
Victor spoke again.
“Whatever you do…”
“Don't let them take Emily.”
The call ended.
The SUV's headlights suddenly came on.
And then…
it started driving toward us.
