Chapter 3: The Missing Watch

Julian left the study a few minutes later, muttering something about a “dockyard emergency” and giving me a look that promised retribution. The heavy oak door swung shut behind him, leaving a tense silence in its wake. My heart still hammered in my chest, a frantic drum against my ribs. I had refused him. I had finally refused.

Now what?

He had taken the deed release with him, but the silence felt like a temporary truce. I knew he wouldn’t just give up. He’d find another angle, another way to corner me. I had to find something, anything, before he returned.

My eyes fell on his large mahogany desk in the corner of the room. It was always locked, a fortress of Julian’s important papers and “confidential” contracts. He’d often boasted about its custom-made Yale lock, a gift from some influential senator.

He kept the key on a heavy silver ring, usually tucked into his vest pocket. But in his rush to leave, to avoid further confrontation, he might have been careless.

I walked over to the desk, my footsteps muffled by the Persian rug. The wood gleamed under the lamplight, heavy and imposing. I ran my fingers along the top, a habit from years ago when I used to sneak small candies from his drawer as a child.

Then I saw it. Tucked just under the lip of the desk, almost hidden by an ornate carving, was a single, small brass key. It was Julian’s spare, the one he rarely used, the one he thought I didn’t know about. A flicker of hope ignited within me.

My hands trembled slightly as I inserted the key into the lock. It turned with a satisfying, quiet click. I pulled open the top drawer.

Inside, it was a chaotic jumble of papers. Half-empty cigar boxes, loose change, dried inkwells, and a scattering of various invoices. My breath hitched. This was it. This was where he kept his real records, the ones he didn’t want anyone to see.

I began to sift through the stacks, my eyes scanning for anything that looked like a ledger or a contract. My fingers brushed against thick envelopes, some sealed, some ripped open. I found copies of shipping manifests, all bearing the insignia of various Philadelphia scrap-metal companies—companies I vaguely remembered Julian mentioning in passing.

Then I found them: a stack of invoices, all with identical numbers. Not sequential, not even close. Duplicated. Hundreds of them, all for “reclaimed war materials,” all billed to defense contractors. The sums were high, the descriptions vague. This was it. The ghost companies, the phantom materials. But where was the proof of *my* connection? Where was the signed authorization, the evidence that linked me to his scheme?

I kept searching, my heart beating faster with each passing second. I needed something concrete, something undeniable. I pulled out a leather-bound journal, flipping through it quickly. Blank.

Below the journal, I found a small, velvet-lined compartment. I clicked it open. My breath caught in my throat.

It was empty.

My grandfather’s silver pocket watch. The one Julian had given me years ago, claiming it was for “safekeeping.” The one he had instructed me to keep in my bedroom drawer, “away from prying eyes.” The one I had seen him fiddling with, just a few days ago, under the guise of admiring its intricate engraving.

It wasn’t here. It wasn’t among his private papers, which it should have been if it truly held importance to him. My mind raced. Why would it be missing? And why had he told me to keep it in my drawer, only to have it disappear now?

A cold wave of realization washed over me. He hadn’t given it to me for safekeeping. He’d given it to me to *plant* something, to make it look like *I* was hiding the evidence. But the watch wasn’t here. This was a critical piece of the puzzle, and it was gone.

I slammed the drawer shut, the sound echoing loudly in the quiet study. I locked it again, placing the spare key back in its hiding spot. My mind spun, trying to grasp the implications.

The watch. It wasn’t just a sentimental family heirloom. It was a key piece of evidence, and it was missing from *both* our possessions.

A sudden, sharp memory surfaced: Thomas, my son, watching Julian intently just last week, his eyes narrow and thoughtful. Thomas had been quiet, observing everything. Could he have seen something? Could he have known?

The thought, at first, seemed impossible. Thomas was just a boy, only fourteen. But he was observant, sharp. He had always been protective of me. What if he had been protecting me from Julian all along? I had to find him. I had to ask him. The watch. Where was the watch?