My phone buzzed again.

This time, the caller ID showed a name I hadn’t seen in years.

A name from old Christmas cards, old arguments, old silences.

Daniel Mercer.

But before I could answer, a text appeared beneath it.

Open the door, Mason. I brought the proof your father died trying to bury.

Behind me, Claire whispered, “If you open that door, your life will never go back to what it was.”

I looked at the black binder.

I looked at the old photograph.

I looked at the woman who had called herself my wife while preparing documents that described me as dead.

Then I walked toward the front door.

And just as my hand touched the lock, my mother screamed through the phone, “Mason, don’t — that man is not Daniel Mercer.”