Chapter 7 - THE NIGHT TWO BROTHERS DISAPPEARED
“Edward was there when Richard died?”
My voice was barely audible.
Adrian nodded.
“According to the visitor log.”
I stared at the screen.
For thirty-four years, I'd believed my biological father had abandoned me.
Now I knew he'd returned to Manhattan.
He'd been inside Blackwood Entertainment on the night Adrian's father died.
And afterward, he'd disappeared again.
“Why didn't anyone tell me?” I whispered.
My mother pressed a hand to her chest.
“Because I didn't know he came back that night.”
Adrian looked at her.
“You said Richard told you Edward had returned.”
“He told me Edward was in New York. He didn't say they were meeting at the company.”
I studied her face.
My mother was frightened.
Not guilty.
There was a difference I'd learned too late in my own life.
Rachel spoke quietly.
“We need to know what happened in that screening room.”
Adrian agreed.
But the official company archive had a gap.
Security footage from eleven that night was missing.
Not damaged.
Not accidentally overwritten.
Removed from the system before Richard's death was publicly announced.
The authorization had come from Daniel Cole's credentials.
“Then Daniel knows,” I said.
“Possibly,” Adrian answered.
“Possibly?”
“Someone could have used his access. I want proof before accusing anyone.”
Six years ago, Adrian had never demanded that kind of certainty before condemning me.
The irony wasn't lost on either of us.
That afternoon, the company's independent investigator, Rebecca Sloan, arrived in Vermont.
She was a former federal financial examiner in her late fifties, with silver-rimmed glasses and the calm patience of someone who had spent decades listening to powerful people lie.
Adrian had asked her to review the matter.
But Rebecca insisted on speaking with me separately.
“I don't work for Mr. Blackwood personally,” she explained. “My assignment comes from the independent board committee.”
“Good,” I said.
She opened a notebook.
“Tell me about your audition.”
I described the Project Phoenix casting call.
The private screening.
The way Richard Blackwood had watched my performance with unusual intensity.
The strange conversation afterward.
He'd told me, “You're braver than you know, Miss Bennett.”
At the time, I'd assumed he meant my acting.
Now I wasn't sure.
Rebecca made a note.
“Did he give you anything?”
I shook my head.
Then stopped.
“A ticket.”
“What kind?”
“A theater ticket.”
Richard had handed me an old-fashioned ticket to a private screening scheduled for the following week.
The event never happened.
I'd kept the ticket in a memory box because it was the last kind thing anyone at Blackwood Entertainment had given me.
I told Rebecca.
Her expression sharpened.
“Do you still have it?”
“Yes.”
“Please don't lose it.”
I almost laughed.
After everything we'd uncovered, a theater ticket seemed absurdly small.
Yet something about Rebecca's voice made me uneasy.
She explained that Richard frequently used numbered tickets for private film screenings.
Some were ordinary admissions.
Others corresponded to archived screening materials.
If my ticket belonged to Project Phoenix, it might identify the original footage.
I immediately asked Rachel to retrieve my memory box from storage.
Meanwhile, Adrian returned to Manhattan.
The board committee had summoned Marcus Vale and Daniel Cole.
Vanessa's lawyers sent a statement accusing Adrian of reopening old allegations because of a personal relationship.
Then Marcus made his move.
At four that afternoon, the company announced Adrian would temporarily step aside as chief executive while its governance practices were reviewed.
I saw the headline while sitting beside Noah at my mother's kitchen table.
BLACKWOOD ENTERTAINMENT CEO FACES INTERNAL REVIEW.
For a moment, I felt an ugly satisfaction.
Adrian was finally discovering how quickly powerful people could destroy a reputation.
Then I remembered Noah.
His father was being publicly humiliated.
And whether Adrian deserved consequences or not, Noah didn't deserve another family torn apart by headlines.
My son looked at the photograph on my phone.
“Is Adrian in trouble?”
“Some grown-ups are arguing about his job.”
“Did he do something bad?”
I hesitated.
“He made mistakes.”
Noah considered that.
“Can he say sorry?”
“Yes.”
“Then he should.”
I smiled sadly.
“If only grown-ups were that smart.”
That evening, Adrian called.
His voice was calm, but I could hear the strain underneath.
“Marcus has convinced three board members I'm acting emotionally.”
“Are you?”
“Yes,” he admitted. “But that doesn't make the evidence disappear.”
I sat on the porch.
“What's your plan?”
“Let Rebecca finish her investigation. Then face whatever she finds.”
I was silent.
Finally, I asked, “Are you afraid?”
“Yes.”
“Of losing the company?”
“No.”
He paused.
“Of losing Noah before I ever get the chance to know him.”
I closed my eyes.
For six years, I had imagined Adrian suffering some version of what I'd suffered.
But there was nothing satisfying about hearing that fear in his voice.
Not when a child stood between us.
“I won't keep Noah from someone who treats him well,” I said.
Adrian exhaled.
“Thank you.”
“Don't thank me yet. You've still got a lot to prove.”
“I know.”
The next morning, Rachel arrived carrying my old memory box.
Inside were photographs, playbills, dried flowers, and dozens of small reminders of the life I'd lost.
Near the bottom lay the ticket.
Cream paper.
Gold lettering.
PROJECT PHOENIX — PRIVATE SCREENING
SEAT: A-17
DECEMBER 19
The day after Richard died.
Rebecca examined it carefully.
Then she turned it over.
A small handwritten message filled the back.
If they change the story, look beneath the stage.
My pulse accelerated.
“Beneath the stage?”
Rebecca leaned closer.
“This is Richard's handwriting.”
Adrian joined us by video call.
When he saw the message, he closed his eyes.
“I know which stage.”
“Where?” I asked.
“The original Blackwood screening theater. My father refused to renovate it.”
Rebecca looked concerned.
“Who controls that theater now?”
Adrian's expression darkened.
“Marcus.”
Within hours, Rebecca obtained permission from the independent committee to inspect the theater.
Rachel and I accompanied her.
Adrian was not allowed access under the terms of his suspension.
It felt wrong leaving him outside a room his father had built.
But he didn't protest.
Inside, the old theater smelled of dust and polished wood.
Rows of burgundy velvet seats faced a faded gold curtain.
Rebecca located Seat A-17.
A small brass plate was attached beneath the armrest.
I touched it.
There was a narrow groove along the edge.
Rachel brought a flashlight.
I pressed the plate.
It shifted.
Behind it was a tiny compartment.
Inside lay a brass cylinder.
Rebecca lifted it carefully.
Its lid bore the same phoenix symbol.
She opened it.
Inside was a rolled strip of paper containing one number.
47
And beneath it, three words.
ASK THE PROJECTIONIST.
The theater's retired projectionist was named Walter Hayes.
Seventy-four years old.
He still lived in the Bronx.
Rebecca contacted him.
Walter agreed to meet us.
But when we arrived at his apartment that evening, he took one look at the brass cylinder and went pale.
“Where did you get that?”
“Richard Blackwood left it,” I said.
Walter sat down slowly.
“I thought he'd destroyed the last one.”
“The last what?”
“The access token.”
He rubbed his forehead.
“Richard stored everything on analog film. He didn't trust the company's servers.”
Rebecca leaned forward.
“Do you know where the original Project Phoenix footage is?”
Walter nodded.
Then he looked directly at me.
“Yes, Miss Bennett.”
My breath caught.
“Where?”
His voice trembled.
“I gave it to your father.”
I gripped the chair.
“Edward?”
Walter shook his head.
“No.”
He pointed toward the old photograph I'd placed on the table.
“Richard.”
I stared at him.
Walter swallowed.
“Miss Bennett, Richard Blackwood wasn't trying to give you a job.”
He reached beneath his sweater and removed a small brass locket.
Inside was a photograph of a newborn baby.
On the back was a hospital identification number.
And my name.
May you like
Walter whispered:
“He was trying to return you to the family that had been stolen from you.”
