The envelope had no return address, just my name in red ink that looked suspiciously like dried blood.

I should've thrown it away. Instead, I tore it open at my kitchen table, coffee going cold beside me.

You have three days.

That was it. No signature, no explanation. Just five words on yellowed paper that smelled faintly of lavender and decay.

My phone buzzed. Unknown number.

"Did you get it?" A woman's voice, smooth as silk over broken glass.

"Who is this?"

"Three days to find what your father took. Or everyone learns what you did last summer."

My blood ran cold. Last summer was supposed to stay buried. Literally.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

She laughed, and I heard wind chimes in the background—the same ones that hung outside the old Morrison house. The house that burned down. The house where...

"Check your father's study. The false bottom in his desk. You'll understand."

"My father's been dead for ten years."

"Has he?"

The line went dead.

I sat there, staring at the red ink, my mind racing. My father had died in a car accident when I was seventeen. Closed casket. I'd never questioned it.

But I'd also never been inside his study—my stepmother had locked it the day after the funeral and moved out a week later. The house had been mine ever since, that room a sealed tomb of memories I'd never wanted to excavate.

Until now.

I climbed the stairs slowly, each step creaking like a warning. The study door stood before me, still locked after all these years. I'd kept the key on my keychain, a talisman I'd never intended to use.

The lock clicked open with surprising ease.

Inside, everything was exactly as he'd left it. Dust motes danced in the afternoon light. His desk sat in the center like an altar.

I approached it, hands trembling, and found the seam in the wood—barely visible unless you knew to look.

The false bottom opened with a soft whisper.

Inside was a passport. Recent. With my father's photo.

Dated three months ago.

#serialfiction #mystery #thriller #suspense