Chapter 3 - The Watch That Vanished
The brown watch had belonged to my grandfather.
It was not expensive.
At least, that was what Dad had always told us.
He wore it only on family anniversaries and important days.
The night he died had been his father’s birthday.
So Ethan’s memory made sense.
Rebecca requested the full evidence inventory.
The brown watch was nowhere in it.
Neither was any mention of Victor possessing it.
I called Victor.
He answered on the third ring.
“Claire.”
His voice sounded exhausted.
“We need to talk.”
“Do you have Dad’s watch?”
Silence.
“What?”
“The brown leather one.”
Another pause.
“Why would I have it?”
“Ethan says you took it.”
He laughed.
Not naturally.
“Ethan says a lot of things right now.”
“He says you hid the knife.”
“Claire.”
“You were at the house.”
“I told police that.”
“You told me for six years you arrived after the ambulance.”
Victor went quiet.
I remembered every Thanksgiving.
Every birthday.
Every time he sat across from me and talked about truth.
“You lied.”
“I was protecting you.”
Those words made my stomach turn.
“From what?”
“From details you did not need.”
“Dad was murdered.”
“I know.”
“Mom almost died yesterday.”
“I know.”
“And you still think I don’t need details?”
Victor sighed.
“Meet me.”
“No.”
“Claire.”
“I’m not meeting you alone.”
His voice changed.
Harder.
“You should stop involving Ethan.”
I froze.
“What does that mean?”
“He is confused.”
“No.”
“He is a child.”
“He remembers you.”
Victor lowered his voice.
“You have no idea what you’re pulling apart.”
I ended the call.
Rebecca heard everything.
“That sounded like a warning.”
“It was.”
We reported it.
Again, police said it was concerning but not enough.
Then the detective returned Ethan’s brass key.
They had found nothing in the state databases connecting B-17 to a local locker, storage facility, or registered safe deposit box.
Rebecca turned the evidence bag over.
“B-17.”
I stared at it.
Then remembered something from childhood.
Dad and Victor co-owned an old automotive warehouse before Dad sold his share.
The building had rows of private storage bays.
They were labeled with letters and numbers.
B-17 could be one of them.
The warehouse still existed.
Hayes Industrial Storage.
Victor owned it now.
We drove there that afternoon with Rebecca and a private investigator named Marcus Reed.
The building sat near the river on the edge of town.
Victor’s office was closed.
A manager told us Victor had not been there all day.
Rebecca showed court documents authorizing access to any family property connected to the reopened investigation.
The manager reluctantly led us into the rear section.
Rows of steel doors stretched down a dim corridor.
B-11.
B-12.
B-13.
My heart accelerated.
Then we reached B-17.
The brass key fit.
Inside was a narrow storage room.
Dust covered old furniture.
Boxes lined one wall.
Marcus turned on his flashlight.
We searched.
Nothing at first.
Then Ethan pointed toward a loose floor panel.
“There.”
Marcus lifted it.
Beneath the wood was a metal case.
Rebecca opened it.
Inside lay Dad’s brown leather watch.
My breath stopped.
Beside it sat a bloodstained shirt.
And underneath both was an envelope addressed in my father’s handwriting.
TO CLAIRE.
May you like
I stared.
Dad had written my name before he died.
