I represented your father, Howard Wilson, in several legal matters over the past decade. I’ve been attempting to locate you regarding items he left in my custody. Recent news reports about the arrest of William Carmichael led me to Lonesome Creek.
Your father left specific instructions that these belongings were to be given to you personally upon his death, along with a storage unit key and documentation he felt you needed to understand his final years.
I can be reached at the number below to arrange a meeting at your convenience.
Respectfully,Robert Yarrow, Esq.
I read the letter three times, though I didn’t get any more answers than the first.
“He wants to give me some of my father’s things.” My voice sounded strange in my ears. “Things Dad left them for me specifically.”
The implications hit hard. My father, who became distant and secretive in his last years, had planned for this. He’d known something might happen to him and arranged for me to receive… What? I thought of a dozen possibilities, each one making my heart beat faster.
“Could-could be anything,” Hail said carefully. “Furniture, personal items, maybe.”
I folded the letter and tucked it back into the envelope. “My father was involved with stolen art forgery. This lawyer mighthave answers about what really happened.” I remembered Will’s threats, the fear that had driven me for a very long time, and wondered if this might explain everything.
Hail put his hand on my shoulder. “Do you want to go?”
The question hung between us. Portland meant facing my past, returning to a place full of memories I’d spent a long time running from. But it also meant answers, maybe closure about the father I’d never really understood.
“I think I need to,” I finally said. “Even if it’s old furniture or papers, there are too many unanswered questions. Will took so much from me, but he also revealed things about my father I never knew. Maybe this lawyer can help me understand who Dad really was.” My voice grew stronger as I spoke.
“Then we’ll go.”
Two days later,we sat in Robert Yarrow’s Portland office. The familiar smells of my childhood city surrounded me—salt air from the harbor, coffee roasting in nearby shops, car exhaust from busy streets. Rain tapped against the tall windows overlooking the waterfront. The gray October sky made everything look soft and melancholy.
The office felt like stepping back in time. Leather books lined dark wooden shelves. It smelled like old paper and furniture polish. A grandfather clock ticked in the corner, its brass pendulum catching gray light through the rain-streaked windows. The lawyer matched his formal letter, silver-haired and distinguished, with kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses that looked decades out of date.
He showed mild surprise when Hail had to duck to enter the office. His spacious room suddenly seemed smaller with mymate inside. Yarrow’s eyes widened briefly before he composed himself. I felt protective pride rise in my chest. Hail always carried himself with quiet dignity, but I knew the stares affected him even if he never showed it.
“Ms. Wilson,” Chamberlain said, settling behind his massive desk. His joints creaked almost as much as his leather chair. “I’m grateful you came so quickly. Your father was very specific about his wishes.” He pointed to a wooden box on a side table. “He asked me to give you this first, before providing the storage unit information. He said it would help explain everything else.”
My hands shook as I took the box. It was surprisingly light, about shoebox-sized, with my name written on top in my father’s handwriting, the same writing that had helped with homework and signed birthday cards throughout my childhood.
I lifted the lid carefully, treating it like something precious. Inside, nestled in tissue paper, I found three items: a stack of photographs, a leather journal, and a sealed envelope with “For Allison” written on it in Dad’s careful writing.
The first photograph made me gasp. It showed my mother, younger than I’d ever seen her, standing next to a man I didn’t recognize in front of an art gallery. Mom was laughing, her face bright with joy, one hand resting on her clearly pregnant belly. She looked radiant, happy about the baby she carried.
Me. She’d been pregnant with me, and she’d looked pleased about it.
“That’s my mother,” I whispered, my voice thick. The only photo I’d had of her showed her staring off in the distance. I’d called it wistful, though I couldn’t know her thoughts. I’d never seen her pregnant, never seen proof of how she felt about having me.
I looked through the other photos with trembling hands. More pictures of my parents together, showing Mom’s pregnancy progression, others from their early years. Even oneon their wedding day, both with hope and excitement in their eyes. In every image, she looked happy. The guilt I’d carried for years, that my birth wasn’t wanted, that I’d caused her death, began to crack. My chest felt lighter with each photo I studied.
“She wanted me,” I said, barely audible. “She was glad to be having me.” I touched her smiling face in the photo, wishing I could reach through time and know her.
Hail leaned closer, his breath warm on my cheek as he looked at the images. “She looks radiant. And look at your fa-father’s face. He loves both of y-y-you.”
The journal was worn soft from use and filled with my father’s handwriting. I flipped through briefly, seeing dates, names, and detailed notes about artwork and money. But the envelope drew me most strongly. I broke the seal and pulled out the letter inside, the paper rustling softly in the quiet office.
Allison,
If you’re reading this, then the worst has happened, and I’m no longer able to protect you myself. I hope Robert found you safely and that you’re somewhere secure, surrounded by people who care about you.
There’s so much I never told you, so many truths I kept hidden to keep you safe. I know you thought I was distant in those final years, that I pushed you away when you needed me most. The truth is, I was terrified that my work would put you in danger.
For the past few years, I’ve been working undercover with federal authorities to expose a network of art thieves and forgers. What started as suspicions about irregularities in some acquisitions became a full investigation into stolen masterpieces, money laundering, and worse. William Carmichael was at the center of it all.
