I didn’t run.
I drove straight to the house on Benefit Street.
The old Prescott house. Three stories of brick and white trim, built in 1890. The house where I learned to ride a bike on the sidewalk out front. Where my father taught me to play chess in his study. The study where they’d found him on the floor.
I hadn’t spent a single night in it since the funeral.
The family photo albums were in the attic. My grandmother kept everything. Thirty boxes of photographs, all labeled in her careful handwriting.
It took me two hours to find the right one.
Grandma Prescott’s eightieth birthday. June 2009. The backyard. A white tent, round tables, paper lanterns strung through the old maple tree. My father in a blue blazer with his arm around Grandma. Me at nineteen, home from my first year at West Point, in a sundress I’d hated.
I went through every photo slowly.
On the sixth page, I found him.
He was standing at the very edge of the frame. Near the rose garden. Apart from the crowd. Holding a glass of wine. Not smiling.
Watching my father.
Tall. Gray-haired. Expensive suit.
I held the photo up to the attic light and stared at his face. Looking for something familiar. Something that would explain how a stranger could be my father’s brother.
And then I saw it.
The same sharp jawline. The same deep-set eyes. The same slight crook at one corner of the mouth when he wasn’t trying to smile.
My father’s face. Thirty years of somebody else’s life laid over it.
I took a picture of the photograph with my phone and sent it to Margaret.
She called back in eleven minutes.
“We ran facial recognition,” she said. Her voice was strange. “It matches a current identity. Richard Harmon. Founder and CEO of Harmon Industries. Respected businessman. Philanthropist. Sits on four corporate boards in New England.”
“Which ones?”
A pause.
“Alyssa. He sits on the board of Prescott Regional Builders. He’s been on it for eleven years.”
The floor dropped out from under me.
Richard Harmon. I’d met him. He came to my father’s funeral. He shook my hand at the reception and said, “Your father was a remarkable man. You must be very proud.”
He’d held my hand a second too long. I remembered thinking his grip was cold.
“Eleven years,” I said. “He’s been sitting at the same table as my father for eleven years.”
“Waiting,” Margaret said.
Ethan Blake is a skilled Creative Content Specialist with a talent for crafting engaging and thought-provoking narratives. With a strong background in storytelling and digital content creation, Ethan brings a unique perspective to his role at TheArchivists, where he curates and produces captivating content for a global audience.
Ethan holds a degree in Communications from Zurich University, where he developed his expertise in storytelling, media strategy, and audience engagement. Known for his ability to blend creativity with analytical precision, he excels at creating content that not only entertains but also connects deeply with readers.
At TheArchivists, Ethan specializes in uncovering compelling stories that reflect a wide range of human experiences. His work is celebrated for its authenticity, creativity, and ability to spark meaningful conversations, earning him recognition among peers and readers alike.
Passionate about the art of storytelling, Ethan enjoys exploring themes of culture, history, and personal growth, aiming to inspire and inform with every piece he creates. Dedicated to making a lasting impact, Ethan continues to push boundaries in the ever-evolving world of digital content.