THE SON THEY BURIED WAS THEIR ONLY HEIR

Chapter Thirty Three: The Cost of Knowing

Benedict returned to the city just before noon.

He had barely slept.

The Ashfall archive had raised more questions for him than it had provided answers.

The photographs.

The old records.

The handwritten note.

None of them explained who he was.

And that was what frustrated him most.

Someone knew.

Someone had always known.

Someone had clearly gone to great lengths to keep Benedict in the dark for years, but their identity remained a mystery.

He placed the archive folder on his desk.

Then his phone rang.

Mara.

"Benedict, don't open any more files yet."

He frowned.

"Why?"

"I checked the archive records after you left."

"And?"

"Someone accessed the system before you arrived."

Benedict went still.

"How long before?"

"About an hour."

"So they knew I was coming."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

Benedict looked at the folder.

"Did they remove anything?"

"Yes."

"What?"

"I don't know yet."

"Then find out."

"I am."

The call ended.

Benedict stared at the folder.

He had expected resistance.

He hadn't expected someone to be moving ahead of him.

At Ashcroft Group...

Damian's forty-eight-hour deadline was approaching.

He stood in the executive conference room reviewing the western division's accounts.

The numbers were worse than he expected.

A major supplier had increased its prices.

Another had threatened to terminate its contract.

Two important clients were wondering if Benedict would come back.

Damian closed his eyes.

For years, he had watched Benedict solve problems before they reached the boardroom.

Now Damian was standing where Benedict had stood.

And there was no one to rescue him.

The door opened.

Victor entered.

"You look tired."

"I am."

Victor sat across from him.

"Do you want help?"

Damian looked up.

"From you?"

"From your father."

Damian smiled faintly.

"I appreciate it."

"But?"

"But I need to solve this myself."

Victor studied him.

"Why?"

If I'm going to be in charge of this company, I need to be able to make decisions without relying on Benedict all the time.

Victor nodded slowly.

"Then what will you do?"

Damian looked at the reports.

I want to figure out what our clients really want and need from us.

Not what the board wanted.

Not what the shareholders wanted.

What the clients needed.

Victor smiled.

"Now you're thinking like a leader."

Damian picked up his phone.

"Then let's get to work."

At Ashcroft Manor...

Eleanor had not stopped thinking about the letters.

She returned to the library after lunch.

The box was still in the same spot where she had put it down.

She opened it again.

The old papers were still there.

But something was different.

One letter was missing.

Eleanor froze.

She counted them again.

Once.

Twice.

The same letter was gone.

It was the oldest one.

She had gotten a letter from someone she thought was Victor, and it was the first one.

Her hands began to tremble.

She searched the desk.

Nothing.

The drawers.

Nothing.

Then she heard footsteps.

Clara appeared at the doorway.

"Madam?"

Eleanor closed the box.

"Did you come in here earlier?"

Clara hesitated.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"To clean."

Eleanor watched her.

"Did you touch this box?"

Clara looked at it.

"No."

Eleanor nodded.

"All right."

Clara turned to leave.

"Clara."

She stopped.

"Yes?"

"Have you ever seen this symbol?"

Eleanor gestured to a faint mark on one of the papers, drawing attention to it.

Clara's eyes flickered.

Only for a second.

"No, Madam."

Eleanor smiled.

"Thank you."

Clara left.

Eleanor waited.

Then opened the box again.

She knew Clara had seen the symbol.

The question was why she had lied.

Across the city...

Benedict met Mara in a quiet office.

She placed a laptop in front of him.

"I recovered part of the deleted data."

Benedict looked at the screen.

"Anything useful?"

"Maybe."

A list of archived files appeared.

Most had been corrupted.

One file remained intact.

Ashcroft Personnel — Restricted.

Benedict stared at it.

"Open it."

Mara hesitated.

"This is private."

"So?"

"If someone went to this much trouble to erase it..."

"Then it matters."

She opened the file.

Benedict's name appeared.

But beneath it was a strange notation.

TRANSFERRED — SPECIAL AUTHORIZATION.

Benedict frowned.

"Transferred where?"

Mara scrolled.

There was no destination.

Only a date.

A date from many years ago.

Benedict recognized it immediately.

It was the same year that the photograph was taken, the one from the archive.

His expression hardened.

"Can you find who authorized the transfer?"

Mara shook her head.

"The signature was removed."

"Can you recover it?"

"Not from this copy."

Benedict leaned back.

Someone had deliberately erased the most important part.

Again.

He looked at Mara.

"There's something else."

"What?"

"Don't search for my identity."

Mara frowned.

"Why?"

"Because whoever did this has been protecting that information for years."

He paused.

"I want to know who ordered the records changed."

Mara understood.

"Follow the person who erased the trail."

"Exactly."

That evening...

Benedict returned to his hotel.

He placed the photograph on the desk.

The little boy stared back at him.

For the first time, Benedict noticed something he had missed before.

The child was wearing a small bracelet.

A silver bracelet.

With a familiar symbol.

A circle crossed by a line.

Benedict's eyes narrowed.

He remembered seeing that symbol somewhere recently.

But where?

He reached for his phone.

Then stopped.

A message had appeared.

You are looking in the wrong place.

Benedict stared at the screen.

Another message followed.

Ask Eleanor about the night everything changed.

His breathing slowed.

Why Eleanor?

What happened that night?

And why did someone want him to ask her?

Benedict looked at the photograph again.

For the first time...

He understood that his investigation had changed.

He had moved beyond just browsing through old files, his search had become more focused.

Someone was deliberately guiding him toward certain answers.

And Benedict didn't know whether the next clue would lead him closer to the truth...

Or deeper into a trap.

The message remained on his screen.

Ask Eleanor about the night everything changed.

He read it again.

Then deleted it.

Not because it didn't matter.

Because whoever sent it wanted him to react.

Benedict refused to be controlled.

Instead, he called Mara.

"I need a favor."

"What kind?"

"Find everything you can about the year marked on that photograph."

"The year connected to your personnel record?"

"Yes."

"Anything specific?"

"Birth records. Company records. Ashcroft property transactions. Anything unusual."

Mara paused.

"That's going to take time."

"Take the time."

"And Benedict?"

"Yes?"

"Be careful who you ask."

"I know."

The call ended.

Benedict looked toward the photograph.

Then his phone rang again.

This time...

It was Eleanor.

He answered.

"Mother."

"Are you awake?"

"Yes."

"I couldn't sleep."

Neither could he.

Eleanor hesitated.

"I've been thinking about something."

"What?"

"The night you first came to Ashcroft Manor."

Benedict went completely still.

"Why?"

"I don't know."

She took a breath.

"I just keep remembering how strange everything felt."

"What do you remember?"

"Not much."

"Try."

There was silence.

Then Eleanor spoke slowly.

"I remember Victor was nervous."

Benedict frowned.

"Victor?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I don't know."

She paused.

"And there was another man."

Benedict's heartbeat quickened.

"Who?"

"I can't remember his name."

"What did he look like?"

"Older."

"Anything else?"

"He was carrying a black folder."

Benedict looked at the photograph.

"Do you remember what was inside?"

"No."

"Mother..."

"I know."

Her voice became emotional.

"I should have remembered."

"You don't have to force it."

"But I do."

Silence.

Then Eleanor whispered,

"Benedict, I think someone wanted me to forget."

His expression hardened.

"Why?"

"I don't know."

The call ended shortly afterward.

Benedict sat motionless.

The pieces were beginning to connect.

But not enough to form a picture.

The next morning...

Damian entered the boardroom carrying a revised proposal.

The western client sat across from him.

"I've reviewed your concerns," Damian said.

He placed the proposal on the table.

"We'll restructure the contract."

The client looked through the pages.

"You reduced our costs."

"Without reducing your service."

"And Ashcroft accepts the risk?"

"Yes."

The client looked at him.

"Why?"

"Because Benedict taught me something."

"What?"

"Sometimes protecting a relationship costs more than protecting a profit margin."

The client smiled.

"I think you've learned quickly."

He signed the agreement.

Damian released a quiet breath.

The contract was saved.

When the room emptied, Victor entered.

"Well done."

Damian smiled.

"Thank you."

Victor looked at the signed contract.

"You didn't imitate Benedict."

"No."

"You made your own decision."

Damian nodded.

"That's what he would have wanted."

Victor's expression became distant.

Perhaps.

Deep down, a question lingered in his mind: would Benedict ever come back?

That afternoon...

Eleanor returned to the library.

She opened the box of letters.

The missing letter was still gone.

But beneath the box...

She found something.

A small brass key.

She picked it up.

She had never seen it before.

A number had been engraved on it.

17.

Eleanor stared.

Room 17.

The same number connected to the old records.

Her fingers tightened around the key.

For the first time...

She wondered whether the secrets Benedict had uncovered were connected to the secrets hidden inside their own home.

She immediately called Victor.

"Where are you?"

"In my study."

"Come to the library."

"Why?"

"Just come."

Victor arrived minutes later.

Eleanor placed the key in his hand.

His face changed.

"Where did you find this?"

"In the box."

Victor stared at the number.

"Seventeen."

"You recognize it."

He didn't answer.

"Victor."

He finally looked at her.

"Yes."

"What's Room 17?"

Victor's expression became guarded.

"An old storage room."

"That's not the truth."

"Eleanor—"

"Someone is moving pieces around us again."

Victor went silent.

Then quietly said,

"Perhaps it's time we stopped pretending we don't know."

Eleanor's heart raced.

"Know what?"

Before Victor could answer...

A loud crash came from the hallway.

They both turned.

A servant rushed toward them.

"Sir!"

Victor stepped outside.

"What happened?"

"The west corridor window."

He pointed.

The glass had been shattered.

Eleanor followed.

There was a small envelope on the floor, right under the window that was broken.

Victor picked it up.

His face became pale.

Eleanor looked at him.

"What is it?"

Victor opened it.

Inside was a single photograph.

Benedict leaving Ashcroft Manor with his suitcase.

On the back were three words.

He remembers nothing.

Eleanor's blood ran cold.

Victor looked toward her.

And for the first time in years...

They were afraid of the same thing.

Not losing Benedict.

But discovering why someone had spent so much time making sure he never remembered.

That evening...

Benedict stood by his hotel window.

His phone vibrated.

A message from Mara.

I found the administrator.

Benedict immediately called.

"Where is he?"

Mara's voice was quiet.

"That's the problem."

"What?"

"He died six years ago."

Benedict closed his eyes.

"How?"

"Officially, natural causes."

"And unofficially?"

Mara hesitated.

"There was something unusual."

"What?"

"He left behind one instruction."

Benedict waited.

Mara finally said,

If Benedict shows up, just hand over the key.

Benedict's eyes widened.

"What key?"

Mara didn't answer immediately.

Then she whispered,

"Number 17."

The call ended.

Benedict slowly looked toward the table.

The photograph.

The old records.

The unanswered questions.

Everything was beginning to point in the same direction.

And somewhere...

Someone had just realized that the key had found its way back into the story.