Chapter 3 - The Man Inside My House
“No.”
The word came automatically.
Michael was three years younger than me.
He was Fiona’s godfather.
He spent Christmas with us.
When my company nearly collapsed during its first year, Michael loaned me money without asking for paperwork.
When Fiona was born, he sat in the hospital waiting room for fourteen hours.
“You’re wrong.”
Thomas didn’t argue.
“I hope I am.”
I picked up the photograph.
It showed Michael entering a Manhattan office building.
Nothing unusual about that.
Then Thomas placed another image beside it.
Richard Langley—Wendy’s brother—entered the same building eleven minutes later.
“When?”
“Three months ago.”
“That proves nothing.”
“No.”
Thomas placed a document beside it.
“This proves more.”
It was a visitor log.
Michael’s name appeared under a company I recognized.
Briar Consulting.
One of the shell companies Thomas had investigated eight years earlier.
My stomach tightened.
“There could be an explanation.”
“There could,” Thomas agreed.
That bothered me.
He wasn’t trying to convince me.
He was giving me evidence and letting it speak.
I called Michael.
Thomas stopped me.
“If he’s involved, calling him tells him we know.”
I looked through the glass wall.
Fiona was coloring now.
Seven years old.
She should have been worrying about spelling words, not adults with eight-year secrets.
“What do you suggest?”
“Go home.”
I almost laughed.
“Home?”
“Act normally.”
“That ended when my daughter told me she was being taken to secret meetings with a dead man.”
Thomas accepted that.
“Then protect Fiona and Jessi while we find out whether Michael is involved.”
I turned toward Wendy.
“You’re coming with me.”
Her eyes widened.
“Daniel—”
“You wanted secrets. Secrets are over.”
Thomas stepped closer.
“Not Jessi yet.”
“She deserves the truth.”
“Yes.”
His face broke.
“But she deserves to survive hearing it.”
I hated the logic.
Eventually, I made a decision I would question repeatedly over the next twenty-four hours.
I didn’t call Jessi.
Not yet.
I took Fiona home.
Wendy followed separately.
On the drive, Fiona was silent for nearly ten minutes.
Then she asked, “Are you mad at Grandma?”
“Yes.”
Children deserve honest answers, even when they need simple ones.
“Are you mad at Grandpa Thomas?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“He’s nice.”
I glanced at her in the mirror.
“How long have you known he was your grandfather?”
“Grandma told me the first time.”
“Did he ever ask you to keep secrets?”
Fiona thought about it.
“No.”
That mattered.
“What did you do there?”
“Mostly drawing. Grandpa asked me about Mommy.”
“What did he ask?”
“What she likes. If she still plays piano. If she’s happy.”
My throat tightened.
“He cried once.”
“Grandpa?”
She nodded.
“He said he missed her.”
Thomas’s deception remained unforgivable.
But suddenly I understood its cost to him.
When we arrived home, I changed everything without explaining why.
Our security director, Marcus Reed, had worked for me for six years. I trusted him—but trust had become an expensive commodity.
I called him into my study.
“Double security.”
“Threat?”
“Possible.”
“Police?”
“Not yet.”
Marcus didn’t ask unnecessary questions.
“Fiona doesn’t leave the property without me or Jessi. Nobody else. Not even family.”
He nodded.
“Understood.”
“And review every camera from the last ninety days.”
“Looking for?”
“Michael.”
Marcus’s expression changed.
“My brother?”
“Yes.”
He didn’t question it.
That evening, Jessi returned from Manhattan.
She found Fiona and me making grilled cheese.
“You’re supposed to be in Chicago.”
“Meeting moved.”
It was the first direct lie I had told my wife in years.
I hated how easily it came out.
Jessi kissed me.
“You look exhausted.”
“Long day.”
Wendy entered ten minutes later.
She looked terrible.
Jessi noticed.
“Mom, are you okay?”
“Headache.”
Another lie.
Our family ate dinner surrounded by them.
After Fiona went upstairs, Jessi poured wine.
“My mother is acting strange.”
I nearly told her everything.
Then my phone vibrated.
Marcus.
I stepped into the hallway.
“We found something.”
Twenty minutes later, I was in the security office.
Marcus replayed footage from eleven nights earlier.
2:14 a.m.
A figure entered through the side door.
Michael.
He knew the code.
He walked directly toward my study.
“He was here?”
“For twelve minutes.”
“I was in Boston that night.”
“I know.”
“Jessi?”
“Upstairs.”
Michael entered my study.
The camera didn’t cover the interior for privacy reasons.
Twelve minutes later, he emerged carrying nothing visible.
I remembered what Thomas had said.
Someone had accessed an encrypted file.
“What was in my study?”
Marcus looked at me.
“Your home server.”
I called our IT director.
By midnight, we had an answer.
Someone had connected an external device to the server eleven nights earlier.
Files had been copied.
Among them were archived documents belonging to Jessi.
Documents inherited from her grandfather.
Langley documents.
At 12:43 a.m., my phone rang.
Michael.
I stared at his name.
Marcus watched me.
“Answer.”
I did.
“Hey.”
Michael sounded normal.
“Thought you were in Chicago.”
My skin prickled.
“Meeting changed.”
A pause.
Tiny.
But I heard it.
“Lucky you.”
“What do you need?”
“Nothing. Just checking in.”
At almost one in the morning?
Then Michael said something stranger.
“How’s Fiona?”
I looked at Marcus.
“She’s asleep.”
“Good.”
Another pause.
“You should keep her close tomorrow.”
My hand tightened around the phone.
“Why?”
Michael breathed out.
“Daniel, I need you to listen to me without asking questions.”
My pulse accelerated.
“Okay.”
“Take Jessi and Fiona somewhere secure tonight.”
“Michael—”
“Don’t tell Wendy where.”
Everything inside me sharpened.
“Why?”
“I said no questions.”
“You broke into my house eleven nights ago.”
Silence.
Then Michael whispered, “Damn it.”
“So it was you.”
“Yes.”
Marcus leaned closer.
“Why?”
Michael’s next words destroyed the simple explanation I had begun constructing.
“Because Richard Langley asked me to steal something from your server.”
My stomach dropped.
“And you did?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because if I didn’t, he was going to kill Thomas.”
I stopped breathing.
Michael continued.
“And Daniel?”
“What?”
“I didn’t give Richard what he asked for.”
A sound came through Michael’s phone.
A door.
Then his breathing changed.
“Someone’s here.”
“Michael?”
“Get your family out.”
The line went dead.
I called back.
Nothing.
Again.
Voicemail.
Marcus was already reaching for his jacket.
Then my phone received a text.
From Michael.
Three words.
May you like
DON’T TRUST WENDY.
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