Chapter 78 Anti-investigation
"I don't know," I answered honestly. "I'm still trying to sort through everything."
"Of course," Bernard said, his voice returning to its usual controlled tone. "Take whatever time you need. The files should arrive within two hours."
After hanging up, I felt a small sense of accomplishment. I'd asked for something, and Bernard had agreed without argument. A tiny bit of control reclaimed.
While waiting for the files to arrive, I decided to explore the guest suite more thoroughly. The living room and kitchen held nothing of interest—beautiful but impersonal.
The bedroom was equally generic, though the mattress was possibly the most comfortable I'd ever slept on. I ran my hand along the nightstand, absently opening the drawer.
Inside was a leather-bound notebook.
My heart skipped a beat as I pulled it out. It looked exactly like Bernard's observation notebook, I afraid it so much.
With slightly shaking hands, I opened it.
But the pages were blank.
No, not entirely blank. On the first page, in Bernard's precise handwriting, was a single line:
"For your observations of me. Equality in all things."
I stared at the words, not quite understanding at first. Then it hit me—Bernard had left this here deliberately, an invitation for me to document my observations of him, just as he had done with me.
"You arrogant, presumptuous..." I trailed off, torn between indignation and a reluctant appreciation of the gesture's symmetry.
It was so like Bernard to think that giving me a notebook to observe him somehow balanced the scales, that it created "equality" after his months of secret surveillance.
Yet as I flipped through the empty pages, a peculiar urge came over me. What if I did take notes on Bernard Jones? What if I documented his habits, his tells, his vulnerabilities? What if I turned his own methods against him?
"Two can play this game," I muttered, reaching for a pen from the nightstand.
I hesitated only briefly before writing at the top of the first page:
"Observations of Bernard Jones (My Uncle)"
The parenthetical was petty, I knew, but satisfying.
Below it, I began to list everything I'd noticed about Bernard since our first meeting:
1. Always punctual. Considers "on time" to be late. Likely arrives 10-15 minutes early to all appointments.
2. Preference for blue Montblanc pens and Moleskine notebooks. He Claimed that he was used to it.
3. Clothing always impeccable. No visible wrinkles, perfect fit. Late obsessive-compulsive disorder.
4. Limited facial expressions, except around me. A cool man!
5. Watches people's eyes when they speak. Looking for emotion?
6. Adopted at 17 by Gregory Morris. What happened to birth parents? Never mentions them. What happen to them?
I paused, realizing I'd filled nearly a page with observations. Had Bernard noticed this much about me in his first observation session? Probably more, knowing him.
A knock at the door interrupted my thoughts. I quickly tucked the notebook back into the drawer and went to answer.
Vivian stood there, holding a large accordion file folder.
"Ms. Peters," she greeted me with a small nod. "The files you requested."
"Thank you, Vivian," I said, taking the folder from her. It was heavier than I expected. "Did Bernard—Mr. Jones—tell you which files to include?"
"Mr. Jones instructed me to provide complete access to all Morris family records regarding your case," she replied. "These are copies of the original documents spanning the past twenty-eight years."
I studied her face, looking for any sign of what she thought about all this—about me being the long-lost Morris heir, about Bernard's relationship with me.
"How long have you known?" I asked directly. "About who I am."
Vivian’s expression didn’t change, just consider the following words. "Mr. Jones informed me of your identity shortly before your trip to Tokyo."
"And what do you think about all this?" I pressed.
"I think finding you brought Mr. Jones more satisfaction than any business success I've witnessed during my time with him."
"That doesn't exactly answer my question," I pointed out.
“In my opinion, I hope to serve both of you."
This answer was very unexpected of me. "Fair enough. Thank you for bringing these."
After Vivian left, I carried the heavy folder to the dining table and spread out its contents. There were police reports, private investigator findings, hospital records from my birth, newspaper clippings about my kidnapping, and—most disturbingly—surveillance photos of Thomas Johnson over the years.
I sorted everything chronologically, creating a timeline of my own abduction and the subsequent investigation. The early documents were filled with panic and urgency—my birth parents desperately searching for their missing baby, offering rewards, pleading for information on television.
Then came the medical reports documenting my mother's deteriorating mental state in the months after my disappearance. It was heartbreaking to read the clinical descriptions of her decline—the hallucinations, the delusions that I was still in my crib, the eventual psychotic break that led to her institutionalization.
"God," I whispered, wiping away tears as I read a psychiatrist's assessment from twenty-five years ago: "Patient continues to insist that baby Diana is merely napping and will wake soon. Attempts to orient patient to reality result in severe agitation and self-harm behaviors."