Chapter 3 - THE PHOTOGRAPH MY MOTHER NEVER WANTED ME TO SEE
"Then tell me the truth."
Those were the first words I spoke after Rachel showed me my mother's name engraved on another man's watch.
She stood beside our honeymoon bed, still wearing the ivory wedding dress I'd watched her walk down the aisle in three hours earlier.
Only now, I couldn't look at her without wondering who she really was.
"Ryan, please let me explain."
"Start with why you approached me five years ago."
Rachel lowered her eyes.
"My mother told me about you before we met."
"How long before?"
"Almost four months."
I laughed.
It wasn't a happy sound.
"Four months?"
She nodded.
"She knew where you worked. Which charities you supported. Where you spent your weekends."
I remembered our first meeting at the Atlanta Children's Hospital fundraiser.
Rachel had been standing near the silent auction, looking at a painting she couldn't afford.
We'd talked for two hours.
She told me she loved old movies, Sunday morning coffee, and driving without knowing where she was going.
I had fallen in love with how ordinary she seemed.
"Was any of that real?" I asked.
"All of it."
"Except the part where you accidentally met me."
Rachel flinched.
"Yes."
I stepped toward the window.
Below us, the hotel's gardens glowed with thousands of white lights.
Our guests were still celebrating.
Somewhere downstairs, a band was waiting for the bride and groom to begin their first dance.
"Did you ever love me?" I asked.
Rachel approached carefully.
"Yes."
"Was that part of your mother's instructions?"
"No."
"Then when did you stop following them?"
She couldn't answer.
And that silence hurt worse than anything Diane had said.
Rachel opened her small bridal purse.
Inside was a worn photograph with bent corners.
She handed it to me.
Three people stood beside the wooden dock at our Lake Lanier house.
My father.
A younger man I didn't recognize.
And my mother.
She was wearing a blue cardigan and smiling at the camera.
I hadn't seen that particular smile in eighteen years.
My throat tightened.
"Who is he?"
"Thomas Richardson. My father."
I studied his face.
He was tall, dark-haired, and looked exhausted despite the smile.
On the back, in my mother's unmistakable handwriting, were five words.
Thomas was right. Tell James.
I read them twice.
"What does this mean?"
Rachel sat down.
"In 2007, my father worked as financial operations director for Whitmore Development."
I knew the company.
My father had built it from a small construction business into one of Georgia's largest privately owned development firms.
"He discovered that almost five million dollars had disappeared from a fund intended to protect families who had invested in a residential project called Cedar Glen."
I remembered the name vaguely.
Cedar Glen had been one of my father's failed developments during the financial crisis.
Rachel continued.
"Forty-one families lost money. My father tried to stop it."
"What happened?"
"He was accused of taking the funds himself."
I stared at her.
"Was he convicted?"
"No. There were investigations, but no charges. That didn't matter. He was fired. His name was all over the local papers. Nobody would hire him."
Her voice broke.
"We lost our house. My father started working nights unloading trucks. He never stopped insisting he was innocent."
I looked down at the watch.
"How did he get this?"
"Your mother gave it to him."
"Why?"
"I don't know everything. Mom always said Margaret Whitmore was the only person in that family who tried to help him."
"Then why target me?"
Rachel wiped her cheeks.
"Because Mom believed your father got away with ruining ours. She wanted access to the financial records and the money she thought he owed us."
"And you agreed?"
"At first."
I waited.
Rachel looked at her wedding ring.
"Then I fell in love with you. I tried to get Mom to stop. Every time, she reminded me of my father."
"You could have told me."
"I know."
"No, Rachel. You don't get to say you know and make five years disappear."
She pressed her lips together.
I took out my phone.
My father's number was still near the top of my recent calls.
He answered on the second ring.
"Ryan! Shouldn't you be dancing with your beautiful bride?"
"Dad, I need to ask you something."
My voice sounded strange.
"Who was Thomas Richardson?"
Silence.
Then I heard my father move away from the wedding reception.
"Where did you hear that name?"
"From Rachel."
Another silence.
"Dad, did Thomas steal money from Whitmore Development?"
My father breathed heavily.
"Ryan, this isn't the night—"
"Did he?"
"No."
The answer was so quiet I almost missed it.
I gripped the phone.
"Then why did everyone believe he did?"
My father didn't answer immediately.
When he finally spoke, his voice had changed.
He sounded older than his sixty-eight years.
"Because I let them."
I sat down.
Across the room, Rachel began crying again.
My father continued.
"Son, there's something about your mother, Thomas Richardson, and that lake house that I should have told you a long time ago."
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Then he said:
"Come downstairs. And whatever you do, don't let Diane Richardson leave the hotel."
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