Chapter 7: The Dead Man's Fingerprints
Chapter 7: The Dead Man's Fingerprints
Emily stared at the forensic report as if willing the words to change.
Jonathan Carter.
Her grandfather.
Declared dead fifteen years ago after suffering what the family had always described as a sudden heart attack.
She slowly lowered the paper.
"That's impossible."
Detective Marcus Bennett remained calm.
"I agree. Which is why we're verifying everything before drawing conclusions."
"The fingerprints have to be wrong."
"That's one possibility."
Emily took a deep breath.
"My grandfather was buried."
"Were you at the funeral?"
"Yes."
"Did you see him?"
Emily hesitated.
"The casket was closed."
Bennett noticed.
"You never actually saw his body."
Emily's heart pounded.
"No... but my grandmother said—"
She stopped herself.
Her grandmother had never actually said she had identified Jonathan's body.
Everything Emily knew had come from her parents.
An hour later, Bennett arranged a meeting with Dr. Olivia Chen, the forensic specialist who had analyzed the fingerprints.
Dr. Chen projected several images onto a large monitor.
"We recovered three clear latent prints from the frame of Ms. Carter's office window."
She pointed to the first image.
"This print belongs to the responding crime scene technician."
The second.
"This one belongs to Ms. Emily Carter."
Then the third.
"This unidentified print matched an archived fingerprint card with a confidence level exceeding ninety-nine percent."
Emily folded her arms.
"The archived card belongs to my grandfather."
"Correct."
"So either he's alive..."
Dr. Chen finished the sentence.
"...or someone intentionally used his fingerprints."
Emily frowned.
"Can someone do that?"
"It's extremely difficult, but not impossible."
Bennett looked at Dr. Chen.
"Would the print appear different if it had been artificially transferred?"
"Usually."
"And this one?"
"It looks natural."
Emily felt even more confused.
"So we're back to believing a dead man broke into my house."
"No," Bennett replied. "We're back to asking whether Jonathan Carter actually died."
That afternoon, Emily returned home with Sophie.
The little girl sat quietly at the kitchen table drawing flowers.
She had been unusually silent since leaving the hospital.
Emily poured two glasses of lemonade.
"How are you feeling?"
"My head hurts less."
"That's good."
Sophie continued coloring.
After several minutes, she looked up.
"Mommy?"
"Yes?"
"Grandma doesn't love me anymore."
Emily's chest tightened.
"What makes you think that?"
Sophie carefully placed her crayons down.
"She watched Uncle Preston yell at me."
Emily knelt beside her.
"Sweetheart..."
"And when I cried, she didn't hug me."
Emily pulled her daughter into her arms.
"You did nothing wrong."
"Then why didn't she help me?"
Emily couldn't answer.
Not because she didn't know.
Because no explanation could ever make sense to an eight-year-old.
Meanwhile, across the city, Diane Carter sat alone in the family's sprawling suburban home.
She hadn't slept.
The television played continuous news coverage outside the Whitmore Hotel.
Reporters discussed the viral videos captured by wedding guests.
The headlines were brutal.
LOCAL BUSINESSMAN UNDER INVESTIGATION FOR ASSAULTING CHILD AT WEDDING
SURVEILLANCE FOOTAGE CONTRADICTS FAMILY'S CLAIMS
Diane switched the television off.
The silence was unbearable.
She walked upstairs to Jonathan and Eleanor's old bedroom.
The room had remained almost untouched since Eleanor's death.
Diane slowly opened the antique oak wardrobe.
Hidden beneath a stack of blankets sat a small wooden box.
She removed it carefully.
Inside were dozens of old photographs.
Letters.
Legal papers.
And one cassette tape.
Written across the label in Eleanor's handwriting were four words.
For Emily Only.
Diane closed her eyes.
"I tried to protect you, Mom," she whispered.
Tears rolled down her cheeks.
"But I protected the wrong son."
At Chicago Police Headquarters, Detective Bennett received an unexpected visitor.
An elderly woman introduced herself.
"My name is Margaret Holloway."
Bennett invited her inside.
"What can I do for you?"
She placed an old newspaper clipping on his desk.
"I saw the story about Preston Carter."
Bennett glanced at the headline.
It was dated sixteen years earlier.
The article described a warehouse fire on Chicago's South Side.
One person had supposedly died.
Jonathan Carter.
Bennett looked up.
"Were you acquainted with him?"
Margaret smiled sadly.
"I was his legal secretary for twenty-two years."
His eyes narrowed.
"The death certificate says he died in that fire."
She nodded.
"I know."
"Did he?"
Margaret remained silent for several seconds.
Then she answered.
"I prepared the paperwork."
"And?"
"It wasn't real."
Bennett sat forward.
"What do you mean?"
"The fire happened."
"The body?"
"There wasn't one."
Bennett's pulse quickened.
"Then whose funeral did the family attend?"
Margaret slowly shook her head.
"There was never a body in that coffin."
"So Jonathan Carter..."
"...planned his own death."
Before Bennett could ask another question, Margaret reached into her purse.
She handed him a yellow envelope sealed with dark red wax.
"Jonathan told me that if anything ever happened to Eleanor..."
She looked directly into Bennett's eyes.
"...and if Emily's life was ever in danger..."
"...I was to deliver this."
Bennett carefully broke the seal.
Inside was a handwritten letter.
The first line stopped him cold.
If you're reading this, then Preston has already become exactly the man I feared.
Bennett immediately picked up his phone.
He dialed Emily.
She answered on the second ring.
"Emily," he said urgently.
"You need to leave your house."
She froze.
"Why?"
Bennett's voice was steady but urgent.
"Because according to a witness I just interviewed..."
He looked again at Jonathan's letter.
"...your grandfather may still be alive."
A loud crash echoed through Emily's living room.
The front window exploded inward.
May you like
Someone had just broken into the house.
And Sophie was standing only a few feet away.
