Chapter 3: The Path to the Truth
The journey north was a blur of hitchhiked rides, cold nights in bus stations, and the constant, gnawing fear that someone was watching. Every shadow looked like Arthur; every passing car sounded like the estate’s security detail.
I arrived in the coastal town of Oakhaven three days later. It was a bleak place, defined by crashing waves and salt-stained buildings. I walked the docks, clutching the photo I had also found in the envelope—a grainy image of a man standing in front of a lighthouse, his wrist turned, showing a jagged, distinct scar.
I asked the locals, but the name 'Julian' drew only shrugs or wary glances. It wasn't until I reached a small, run-down tavern called 'The Rusty Anchor' that I got a reaction.
The bartender, a man with graying hair and eyes like flint, froze when I showed him the picture.
"Where did you get this?" he asked, his voice low.
"He's my father," I said.
The bartender laughed, a harsh, dry sound. "Kid, you don't know what you're asking for. Julian hasn't been seen in these parts for twenty years. Not since the day he was framed for the Blackwood embezzlement scheme."
The room spun. Embezzlement. My father—my fake father, Elias—had become one of the wealthiest men in the country through a massive tech conglomerate.
"Framed?" I whispered.
"Elias Blackwood set him up," the bartender said, leaning over the counter. "Stole his company, stole his reputation, and stole his family. Julian was sent to prison, and when he got out, he vanished. They said he was dead. They said he was killed in a prison riot."
Everything fell into place. The wealth, the power, the guilt that made Elias look at me with such venom. I wasn't just a stolen son; I was the son of the man he had destroyed.
"Where is he?" I asked.
"He lives on the island," the man pointed toward a jagged rock formation a mile off the coast. "The lighthouse keeper. But he doesn't like visitors. Especially ones from the Blackwood line."
I stole a small boat from the dock. The sea was choppy, the wind howling, but I didn't care. I rowed until my hands were blistered, until the lighthouse emerged from the fog like a ghost.
I docked the boat and scrambled onto the rocks. The lighthouse door was unlocked. Inside, the walls were covered in maps—maps of the Blackwood estate, maps of the corporate servers, maps of bank accounts.
I climbed the spiral stairs, my heart in my throat. At the top, in a room filled with the smell of salt and old paper, a man sat looking out at the sea. He had the same jawline as me. The same eyes.
May you like
He turned, and I saw the scar on his wrist.
"Macy?" he asked, his voice cracking. "Is that really you?"
