“Because,” Daniel said, forcing the words out, “my mom told me something about this house before she died. Something that will change everything.”
Margaret stiffened.
A tall man in a tailored suit stepped onto the porch. Even in simple movement, he carried authority. But when his eyes fell on the boy, something flickered.
“What’s happening, Margaret?”
“He says he has a secret, sir.”
Daniel swallowed the urge to run. He remembered his mother’s voice—Elena—steady even when she was exhausted. “If you ever look for the truth, do it with respect. But do it.”
The man descended one step. “What secret?”
“My mom’s name was Elena Cruz,” Daniel said. “She worked here years ago.”
Charles Whitmore went pale. “Elena…” he whispered.
Margaret pressed a hand to her chest. She remembered Elena—quiet, hardworking, dismissed without explanation.
Daniel pointed awkwardly to his own eyebrow. “You have a scar here. And when you’re nervous, you touch your hair like this.”
Charles instinctively ran a hand through his hair—and froze.
“Come inside,” Charles said hoarsely. “We won’t discuss this out here.”
Margaret reached for one of Daniel’s bags. He resisted out of pride.