Arthur Bell's former workshop stood on a narrow street behind the old railway station.
I remembered the building from childhood visits with my father. The front windows had once displayed clocks and watches, their brass hands catching the afternoon sun. Now the shop carried a different name, and the glass was covered with notices advertising repairs, secondhand instruments, and antique furniture.
Daniel parked across the street.
“Are you sure you want to do this today?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “But I don't want to spend another night wondering what we'll find tomorrow.”
We crossed the road and entered the shop.
A bell rang above the door. Behind the counter, a woman in her fifties was examining a pocket watch through a magnifying lens. She looked up, greeted us, and asked whether we needed a repair.
“My father used to know Arthur Bell,” I said. “His name was Robert Ellis.”
The woman lowered the magnifier.
“Robert Ellis?”
“You knew him?”
“I knew of him. Arthur spoke about him occasionally.”
“Did he leave anything here?”
She studied us for a moment.
“Who are you?”
“I'm his daughter. This is my brother.”
The woman placed the watch on a cloth.
“I'm Nina Bell. Arthur was my uncle.”
I felt a small surge of relief. At least we had reached someone who might recognize the name in my father's notebook.
I showed her the entry.
Bell's workshop. Ask for the blue ledger.
Nina read it carefully, then turned the notebook slightly toward the light.
“Where did you find this?”
“In my father's desk.”
She looked toward a door behind the counter.
“Come with me.”
We followed her into a cramped office filled with filing cabinets and shelves of old tools. She opened a cupboard and took out a cardboard box marked PERSONAL PAPERS.
“Uncle Arthur died six years ago,” she said. “Before he died, he asked me to keep certain things separate from the business records. I never understood why.”
She removed several folders and placed them on the desk.
“Your father visited here often when I was younger. They weren't always friendly. Sometimes they argued. But Arthur always insisted that Robert had tried to do the right thing.”
“What was the blue ledger?” Daniel asked.
Nina shook her head.
“I don't know. I never saw one.”
I felt disappointment settle in my chest.
“Then why did my father write that we should ask for it?”
“Perhaps he believed Arthur still had it.”
She opened another folder and searched through a stack of old correspondence. At the bottom lay a sealed envelope addressed to Robert Ellis.
The handwriting belonged to Arthur Bell.
Nina passed it to me.
“I found this when we cleared out his office. It was never mailed.”
I opened the envelope carefully. Inside was a single page.
Robert,
You were right about the documents. They cannot remain where they are, and I will not pretend otherwise. But the boy's safety must come first. If Evelyn contacts you again, do not bring her here. Someone has been asking questions, and I believe the inquiries are no longer harmless.
I stopped reading.
The letter ended with a date from thirty years earlier and Arthur's signature.
Daniel read over my shoulder.
“Someone was looking for Evelyn.”
Nina folded her arms.
“That's what the letter says.”
“Did Arthur ever tell you who?” I asked.
“No. But about a year before he died, a woman came into the shop asking about Robert Ellis. She knew my uncle's name and seemed familiar with the place.”
“What did she look like?”
Nina thought for a moment.
“Dark hair, perhaps in her late forties. She wore a gray coat and carried a small canvas bag. I remember her because she didn't ask about repairs. She wanted to know whether Uncle Arthur had kept any old account books.”
My pulse quickened.
“Did she give her name?”
“No. She said she was a relative.”
“Did she look like the woman in this photograph?”
I took the picture of Evelyn from my folder and placed it on the desk.
Nina studied it.
“I can't be certain. The photograph is old, and the woman I saw was older. But there is a resemblance.”
“Did she come back?”
“Once. A few weeks later. I wasn't here, but my assistant said she left a note.”
“Do you still have it?”
Nina looked toward a filing cabinet.
“I might.”
She searched through a drawer filled with old invoices and handwritten messages. After several minutes, she pulled out a small envelope with no stamp.
Inside was a torn piece of paper bearing six words.
If Robert's children come, tell them June was not the beginning.
I read the sentence aloud.
Daniel looked at me.
“What does that mean?”
“I don't know.”
Nina tapped the paper.
“Your father had a complicated history with my uncle. I think they were involved in something they both regretted. But I never heard the details.”
I folded the note and placed it beside Arthur's letter.
“Did the woman mention a blue ledger?”
Nina nodded.
“She asked whether Arthur had ever spoken about a book with blue covers. He told her he didn't know what she meant.”
“Was he lying?”
“I can't say.”
We thanked Nina and left the workshop. Outside, the afternoon light had faded, and the wind carried the smell of wet pavement.
Daniel unlocked the car but didn't get inside.
“June was not the beginning,” he said.
“Whatever happened in June must have started earlier.”
“And the boy was already part of it.”
I looked down at the photograph.
For thirty years, my family had managed to keep a child almost entirely outside its history. My father had known him. My mother had known of him. Arthur Bell had apparently known enough to worry about his safety.
Yet no one had told us what became of him.
My phone vibrated.
A message had arrived from an unknown number.
Stop asking about Evelyn. The next person who gets hurt may not be someone who can protect themselves.
I read it twice, my fingers going cold around the phone.
Daniel saw my expression.
“What is it?”
I handed him the screen.
He read the message, then looked toward the workshop windows.
“Someone knows we're here.”
I called the number immediately, but the call went straight to voicemail. There was no name, no recorded greeting, and no indication that the phone was still active.
I tried once more.
Nothing.
Daniel took my arm.
“We need to get home.”
As we crossed the street, I looked back at the shop. Nina stood behind the window, watching us leave. She raised one hand in a small, uncertain gesture.
Then the lights inside the workshop went out.
Click here to continue reading: PART 8: The Warning Reached My Daughter Before It Reached Me, and I Finally Understood Why My Mother Had Been So Afraid
The Moment My Daughter Began Crying, I Realized There Was Something She Had Been Afraid to Tell Me
Part 7 of 13
