Chapter 3 - THE PHOTOGRAPH INSIDE THE WATCH
“That's my mother.”
I heard the words leave my mouth, but they barely sounded like mine.
On the studio monitor, Vanessa held the open silver watch toward the cameras.
Inside its back cover was a tiny photograph of my mother, Eleanor Bennett, standing beside Richard Blackwood.
Adrian's father.
The man whose death had made Adrian one of Manhattan's wealthiest heirs.
The man I'd been told had never met my family.
Adrian reached for the conference-room table.
“Where did you get that watch?” he demanded.
I stared at him.
“I bought it at an antique shop.”
“Where?”
“Burlington, Vermont.”
He looked at me as though I'd said something impossible.
“My father's watch disappeared the week he died. My mother searched for it for years.”
Noah tugged my sleeve.
“Mom, is that my watch?”
I knelt beside him.
“Yes, sweetheart.”
“Why does that lady have it?”
“I don't know yet.”
He looked upset.
“I put it in my backpack. I didn't lose it.”
“I believe you.”
That was when I realized something worse than the photograph itself.
Someone had taken Noah's belongings.
Someone had been close enough to reach inside his backpack.
And whoever had done it had known exactly what the watch contained.
Adrian turned toward his head of security.
“Find out who accessed the children's dressing area.”
“Mr. Blackwood—”
“Now.”
The man hurried away.
I pulled Noah closer.
“Don't make this into a spectacle.”
Adrian looked at me.
“Claire, it's already a spectacle.”
He was right.
Outside, Vanessa's interview was spreading across the internet.
Inside, the executives stood frozen, waiting for instructions.
The show's lead producer, Martin Pierce, approached us.
“Mr. Blackwood, we need to discuss the contract implications.”
Adrian barely looked at him.
“A child's belongings were taken from your set. That's your first concern.”
Martin's face reddened.
“The children are supervised.”
“Apparently not well enough.”
I had waited six years to hear Adrian defend us.
But hearing it now didn't erase the years he'd spent believing someone else.
Rachel guided Noah toward a quiet lounge.
This time, I followed.
I wasn't leaving him alone again.
Adrian came with us, keeping a respectful distance.
Noah climbed onto the couch and crossed his arms.
“I want my watch back.”
“We'll get it,” Adrian said.
Noah studied him.
“You promise?”
Adrian paused.
Then he answered carefully.
“I promise I'll try.”
Something in my chest tightened.
The old Adrian would have promised anything, certain money could make it happen.
This man sounded less certain.
An hour later, Martin returned with security footage.
A production assistant named Holly Reed had entered the children's dressing area the previous afternoon.
She had been carrying a stack of clean costumes.
On the recording, she paused beside Noah's backpack.
She reached inside.
And removed the watch.
I felt sick.
“Holly helped Noah with his jacket yesterday,” Rachel whispered.
Adrian asked where she was.
Martin hesitated.
“She resigned this morning.”
Of course she had.
The next discovery came when Adrian's security director located Holly's employment paperwork.
Her emergency contact was an older sister.
That sister worked for Vanessa Cole's personal management company.
Adrian stared at the information.
“Bring me her contract.”
Martin shifted uncomfortably.
“Mr. Blackwood, those personnel records are protected.”
“Then preserve them for an investigation.”
He turned to me.
“I'm not going to make the same mistake twice by ordering people to disappear.”
I wanted to believe him.
But I remembered too much.
By lunchtime, Vanessa's interview had crossed eight million views.
Entertainment reporters were questioning whether Noah's existence threatened the Blackwood inheritance.
Other commentators were digging up my old scandal.
I could almost hear the doors closing again.
Then my phone rang.
It was my mother.
I hadn't spoken to Eleanor in nearly three years.
Not because we'd stopped loving each other.
Because every conversation ended with her begging me to leave the past buried.
“Claire,” she said, breathless. “I saw the watch.”
I closed my eyes.
“Mom, why is your picture inside it?”
Silence.
Then she asked, “Where is Noah?”
“Safe with me.”
“Don't let Vanessa take that watch anywhere.”
“Why?”
“Because the photograph isn't what matters.”
My hand tightened around the phone.
“Then what does?”
Eleanor began crying.
I'd heard my mother cry only twice.
Once when my father died.
And once when my acting career collapsed.
“Your grandfather made that watch,” she whispered. “Richard Blackwood commissioned it from him.”
I frowned.
“My grandfather repaired clocks.”
“He also engraved them.”
“Why didn't you ever tell me your family knew the Blackwoods?”
“Because Richard made me promise.”
Before I could ask another question, Eleanor said something that changed everything.
“Claire, if Adrian still has his father's old desk, tell him to check the bottom drawer.”
“Why?”
“There should be a brass key taped underneath.”
“What does it open?”
She hesitated.
“The truth about the night Richard died.”
The call ended when my mother's voice gave way to sobbing.
I sat motionless.
Adrian was watching me.
“What happened?”
I told him.
Every word.
His expression grew more troubled as I spoke.
“My father's desk is in storage,” he said.
“Can you get it?”
“Yes.”
“Then go.”
He looked toward Noah.
“And you?”
“I'll take my son somewhere safe.”
Adrian nodded reluctantly.
“Let me arrange security.”
“No private guards. No men following us in black cars.”
“Claire—”
“That's not a request.”
For a moment, I saw the powerful executive I remembered.
Then he lowered his eyes.
“All right.”
He took out his phone and called Rachel instead.
“Can you help Claire leave through the service entrance? Quietly?”
Rachel agreed.
That small concession surprised me.
Adrian was finally asking instead of commanding.
Before we separated, Noah came over carrying a folded drawing.
“I made this,” he said.
He handed it to Adrian.
Three stick figures stood beneath a crooked yellow sun.
One was me.
One was Noah.
The third was tall and wore a black suit.
Adrian looked at the drawing for a long time.
“Who's this?”
Noah shrugged.
“You.”
“Why am I there?”
“Because you look lonely.”
Adrian's face changed.
He crouched.
“Thank you, Noah.”
My son nodded solemnly.
“Mom says lonely people need lunch.”
For the first time that morning, Adrian laughed.
It was brief.
Almost painful.
But real.
That evening, Rachel drove Noah and me to a small apartment belonging to her cousin in Queens.
I kept the curtains closed.
Adrian went to his company's storage facility.
At eight seventeen, he sent me a photograph.
His father's mahogany desk.
The bottom drawer pulled out.
A small brass key taped underneath.
Then another photograph arrived.
A handwritten label tied to the key.
E. BENNETT — DECEMBER 18.
December eighteenth.
The date Richard Blackwood had died.
I called Adrian immediately.
“Do you know what it opens?”
“No.”
His voice sounded strained.
“But Claire, there's something else.”
“What?”
“My father left a note inside the drawer.”
He read it aloud.
“If Eleanor's daughter ever pays the price for what happened, tell her I tried to stop it.”
I couldn't speak.
Adrian continued.
“And underneath that, there's one more sentence.”
May you like
He took a shaky breath.
“Vanessa Cole was never the person I was supposed to protect.”
