CHAPTER 3 EVERYONE IS LYING
The photograph remained in Michael Brooks’ hand.
For several seconds, nobody moved.
The man in the picture stared back at them from twenty-five years ago.
A younger George Brooks.
A younger version of the mansion.
And a stranger standing beside him.
A man whose existence seemed to have disappeared from history.
Michael looked at his father.
“Who is he?”
George said nothing.
The silence became an answer.
“You know him.”
George slowly walked toward the table.
His eyes never left the photograph.
“Yes.”
The word was barely audible.
Michael’s expression hardened.
“Then tell me.”
George looked at his son.
“Not here.”
Michael laughed bitterly.
“Not here?”
He held up the photograph.
“My wife was attacked. Someone deleted security footage from my office. Someone entered your private archive. And now I find a picture of a man you’ve hidden for twenty-five years.”
His voice rose.
“And you still want to decide when we talk?”
The old anger between father and son returned instantly.
But this time, George did not fight.
Because he knew Michael was right.
Before he could answer, a sound interrupted them.
A phone ringing.
Everyone turned.
It came from the archive room.
Andrew looked around.
“That’s not possible.”
The ringing continued.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
As if whoever was calling knew everyone was listening.
Andrew searched the shelves.
Behind a stack of old files, he found a small black phone.
Nobody recognized it.
George’s face changed.
“Don’t answer it.”
Andrew stopped.
Michael looked at him.
“Why?”
George stared at the phone.
“Because whoever left it there wants us to.”
The ringing stopped.
Then a message appeared.
Unknown Number.
PLAY THE MESSAGE.
Nobody breathed.
Andrew looked at George.
“What do we do?”
George closed his eyes for a moment.
Then nodded.
“Play it.”
Andrew pressed the button.
Static filled the room.
Then a man’s voice appeared.
Old.
Calm.
Cold.
“George Brooks.”
Everyone froze.
The voice continued.
“You spent twenty-five years pretending the past was buried.”
A pause.
“But graves have a way of opening.”
Michael looked at his father.
George’s face had lost all color.
The voice continued.
“Your family deserves the truth.”
Another pause.
“But first, they need to understand one thing.”
The recording became louder.
“Everyone in this house is lying.”
The message ended.
Nobody spoke.
The words stayed in the room.
Everyone is lying.
Michael looked at the people around him.
His family.
His relatives.
Eleanor.
George.
Everyone suddenly looked like a stranger.
Two hours later, the Beverly Hills Police Department arrived.
The mansion that had hosted politicians, celebrities, and billionaires was now surrounded by patrol cars.
Detective Sarah Mitchell entered the living room.
She was forty years old.
Sharp eyes.
Calm voice.
The kind of person who noticed details others ignored.
She looked at Eleanor first.
Then George.
Then Michael.
“I understand there was an alleged assault.”
Eleanor nodded.
“Yes.”
“Mr. Brooks?”
George looked at her.
“I did not attack her.”
Detective Mitchell studied him.
“You understand your son struck you before knowing the facts?”
George glanced at Michael.
“Yes.”
Michael looked away.
The guilt had started replacing the anger.
Detective Mitchell turned toward Eleanor.
“Mrs. Brooks, can you explain what happened?”
Eleanor repeated the story.
She entered the living room.
George became aggressive.
He grabbed her.
She fought back.
She screamed.
Michael arrived.
Detective Mitchell listened carefully.
Then asked:
“Why are there no fingerprints from Mr. Brooks on your dress?”
Eleanor stopped.
Only for half a second.
But Detective Mitchell noticed.
“I don’t know.”
“And why are the scratches on your neck shaped like your own fingernails?”
The room became silent.
Michael looked at Eleanor.
“What?”
Eleanor’s face changed.
“Are you accusing me?”
Detective Mitchell remained calm.
“I’m asking questions.”
But everyone understood.
The investigation had changed.
Later that evening, the family gathered in the dining room.
Nobody ate.
The expensive dinner prepared by the chef remained untouched.
Detective Mitchell placed several documents on the table.
“Let’s begin with the missing footage.”
She looked at Michael.
“The system shows the deletion came from your private study.”
“I didn’t do it.”
“I believe you.”
Michael looked surprised.
“You do?”
She nodded.
“Because someone who planned this carefully would not leave evidence pointing directly at themselves.”
George looked at her.
“Then why?”
“Because they wanted everyone to suspect you.”
She opened another file.
“The problem is, someone had access to your study.”
Michael frowned.
“Who?”
Detective Mitchell looked around the table.
“Everyone here.”
Nobody reacted.
Because everyone knew she was right.
The private study had been used by family members.
Employees.
Lawyers.
Guests.
Anyone could have entered.
Then Detective Mitchell placed another document down.
“Now we have another problem.”
“What?”
“The security system was not hacked.”
Andrew frowned.
“What do you mean?”
“The deletion was performed using a valid administrator account.”
Everyone looked at Eleanor.
Her face became pale.
Detective Mitchell continued.
“And the account used belonged to…”
She paused.
“Eleanor Brooks.”
Michael turned.
Slowly.
His eyes met his wife’s.
“No.”
Eleanor shook her head.
“That’s impossible.”
Detective Mitchell looked at her.
“Is it?”
“I never deleted anything.”
“Then someone used your account.”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
Eleanor opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
Because she had no answer.
That night, Michael could not sleep.
The mansion felt unfamiliar.
The woman he loved had accused his father.
His father had hidden secrets.
Someone was manipulating security systems.
And every person around him seemed to know more than they admitted.
At 2:14 in the morning, Michael heard footsteps.
He opened his bedroom door.
The hallway was empty.
Then he noticed something.
A shadow disappeared around the corner.
Michael followed.
The figure moved quickly toward the library.
Michael reached the doorway.
Nobody was there.
Only one thing remained.
A document lying on the floor.
He picked it up.
The title made his blood run cold.
BROOKS FAMILY INCIDENT REPORT — 25 YEARS AGO
Michael opened the first page.
The first sentence destroyed everything he believed.
"The death of Daniel Carter was not an accident."
Michael stared at the words.
Daniel Carter.
The man in the photograph.
The man his father had hidden.
Behind him, a voice whispered:
“You were never supposed to find that.”
Michael turned.
But the hallway was empty.
END OF CHAPTER 3
