After the car accident, my father lost his memory and had been living in a care facility. I visited him every week. He was in good spirits today, sitting quietly by the window, fiddling with a chess set. The caretaker smiled and told me he'd become obsessed with it lately, and was getting quite good. But I felt ice run through my veins. I couldn't bring myself to take another step toward him. That chess set had belonged to my late mother. My father had sworn in front of every family member we had that he would never touch a chess set again for as long as he lived. The care facility was quiet. Afternoon sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, coating everything in the room with a soft gold. My "father" sat in that golden light with his back to me, a chess set laid out in front of him. He wore a clean striped patient's gown, his hair combed neatly back, a faint shine of pomade catching the light. The caretaker walked in behind me, keeping her tone light. "Miss Thorne, look how well Mr. Thorne is doing today. He's been obsessed with chess lately — plays for hours every day. He's improving fast." My feet felt nailed to the floor. The blood in my body turned cold all at once. I stared at that silhouette — the man I had called "Dad" for over a decade — and felt a chill cut straight to the bone. Chess. That single word was like a rusted blade jammed into my chest. My mother's death was connected to chess. She had a serious heart condition. One day, She had a brief argument with her father over something trivial, and in the heat of the moment, she suffered an attack." She collapsed in the living room, just a few feet from his study. My father had been sitting at his desk with his headphones on, lost in an online match, completely unaware of anything happening outside. By the time he finished the game and pulled off his headphones, it was too late. At my mother's funeral, my father stood in front of every family member we had and smashed his most prized chess set — white jade, hand-carved — to pieces with a hammer. His eyes were red. His voice was steady, every word deliberate. "From this day forward, I, Richard Thorne, will never touch a chess set again for as long as I live. May heaven and earth strike me down if I break this oath." Those words still rang in my ears. And yet that figure sat calmly before me, turning a cannon over in his hand. The caretaker noticed I hadn't moved. "Miss Thorne? Is everything alright?" I took a slow breath, trying to keep my voice steady. "I'm fine. Just a little surprised, that's all." I walked over and moved to his side. He seemed to sense something and looked up. When he saw me, a warm smile spread across his face. "Blair, you're here." His voice was the same as always — deep, with a richness to it. His face was the same face I'd known all my life, only a little pale and thin from the accident and the long recovery. Everyone said that after the crash he'd lost his memory — forgotten so many people, so many things — but that the one thing he hadn't forgotten was me, his daughter. Every time I came to visit, he would smile and call me by name, just like that. But now, looking at that face, all I felt was a stranger staring back at me. "Dad," I said softly, pointing to the board on the table. "When did you start playing the chess?" He glanced down and smiled. "Just a few days ago. The caretaker brought it in to keep me busy. Turns out I kind of like it." "Is that right?" My voice wavered slightly. "Did you... used to like chess? Before?" He paused. A flicker of confusion crossed his eyes. "Before? I can't remember. Probably not, I'd guess. Otherwise I'd have some memory of it." He said it so naturally. So easily. And I felt my heart sink — down and down, into something bottomless. This man was not my father. My father, Richard Thorne, could forget the entire world, but he would never forget the guilt he carried for my mother. He would never forget the oath soaked in blood and tears. This man had taken my father's identity, moved into my father's care facility, spent my father's money — and now he wanted to take me too. I pressed my nails into my palms until they dug into the skin. "Maybe so." I looked down, hiding the cold fury in my eyes. "You should rest. I'll come see you again soon."
I couldn't stand to be there a moment longer. I was afraid that if I looked at him one more time, I'd lose it — I'd lunge forward and tear that fake smile right off his face. I turned and walked out without looking back. The caretaker called after me warmly, "Miss Thorne, won't you stay a little longer? Mr. Thorne is doing so well today..." I didn't respond. I walked straight out of the care facility. The sunlight outside was harsh, but I couldn't feel any warmth in it. What was I supposed to do? I drove straight to the nearest police station. "I need to report a crime!" I rushed into the station and said it to an officer I saw — a man who had just been sitting there with a cup of coffee. He startled and set down his mug. "Ma'am, slow down. Tell me what happened." "My father — someone is impersonating him! The man in that care facility is not my father!" I was barely making sense, my voice shaking. The officer frowned and gestured for me to sit. "Are you talking about the chairman of Submer Group? Mr. Thorne?" "Yes!" "Miss Thorne, I think you may be exhausted. Mr. Thorne has been monitored by our department since the accident. He lost his memory, yes, but his identity has been verified." "No! You have it wrong! He's a fake — he plays chess! He plays chess!" I was clutching at the only proof I had, saying it louder like volume would make them hear me. The officer's expression shifted to something closer to pity. "Miss Thorne, we understand how difficult this has been since your father's accident. But the fact that he plays chess now doesn't prove he's an impostor. Memory loss can change a person's personality and habits — which is medically documented." "But he swore an oath! He swore he would never touch chess again for the rest of his life!" "An oath doesn't carry legal weight," the officer said patiently. "And Miss Thorne — when we confirmed his identity, we ran a DNA comparison. The paternity match between him and you came back at 99.99%." DNA. I went still. How was that possible? If the DNA matched, then... A wild, terrifying thought surfaced in my mind. Was there really someone out there who looked exactly like my father — whose DNA was nearly identical to his? I walked out of the police station in a daze. The city was lighting up around me as evening fell, but I felt more alone and helpless than I ever had in my life. No one believed me. To everyone else, I was just a daughter who'd become obsessive and unhinged after her father's accident. What was I supposed to do? I drove without thinking and found myself back home almost without realizing it. This was the house I'd lived in with my father for over twenty years. Now it was just me. I went into his study. Everything was exactly the way he'd left it. A financial magazine he hadn't finished was still sitting on his desk. I sat down in his chair and tried to draw some strength from the familiar things around me. My gaze drifted to a wooden box in the corner of the bookshelf, coated in dust. It was the box my father used to keep his chess set in. After my mother died, that box had never been opened again. Something pulled me toward it. I lifted it down from the shelf. It was heavy, carved with delicate patterns across the lid. I blew off the dust and opened it. Empty. No chess pieces inside. Right. My father had smashed that white jade set with his own hands. I was about to close the lid when something caught my eye. The bottom of the box looked slightly off. I tapped it with my knuckles. A hollow sound came back. A false bottom. My heart started racing. I worked my fingernail into the gap along the edge for what felt like forever, until finally a thin wooden panel came loose. Underneath, resting quietly in the hidden compartment, was a small black USB drive. Attached to it was a tiny label, written in my father's bold, distinctive handwriting: "The Final Match."
I held that USB drive in my hand, my palm slick with sweat. "The Final Match." Those three words felt like a riddle — one pulling me toward the truth hidden behind it. I went straight to my room and plugged the drive into my laptop. It was password protected. I frowned. What would my father use as a password? His birthday? My mother's? Their wedding anniversary? I tried every number I could think of. Wrong every time. I slumped back in my chair. "The Final Match..." If it was connected to a match, maybe the password was connected to chess too. Something came back to me. The day my mother died, my father had been in the middle of a game. He printed out the game record afterward and kept it tucked inside his favorite chess book. He said he wanted to remember that day forever. To remember what his mistake had cost. I went back to the study and pulled 《Silman's Complete Endgame Course》from the shelf. I opened it. A slightly yellowed piece of paper slid out. On it was a printed game record — a complex position, the final move showing the black king caught with no escape. At the bottom, in handwriting, a single line: "Rook to f 6. No way back." My father's handwriting. My heart lurched. What if... I went back to my laptop and typed the combination into the password field: rooktof6. Enter. The drive unlocked. My heart was hammering as I opened the single folder inside. There was no bombshell confession. No final message. Just a dense collection of Excel spreadsheets and financial reports. I went through them one by one, frowning at the screen. Most of it looked like standard Submer Group accounting. But several files had been flagged in red. I clicked one open. It was a record of a massive overseas investment — the recipient, an offshore company I had never heard of. And in the signature field, the name of the person who had authorized the transfer was one I recognized immediately: Victor Cross. Vice chairman of Submer Group. My father's most trusted business partner. I've always had a deep respect for him. My head went blank. After my father's accident, Victor had been the one who stepped in without missing a beat — steadying the company, reassuring the shareholders, keeping everything from falling apart. Everyone had praised him. Said he was loyal, capable, the backbone of Submer Group in a crisis. I had always been grateful to him. But now, these files — the ones my father had gone out of his way to encrypt and hide — felt like ice water poured straight over me. My father had been investigating him. Before the accident, my father had already been building a case against Victor. That was not a coincidence. I copied every flagged file onto my own computer and wiped the USB drive. When it was done, I felt completely hollowed out. A terrible suspicion had taken shape inside me: My father's accident was no accident. And the man impersonating him was almost certainly working with Victor. I went back to the police. This time, I didn't say a word about chess or oaths. I handed the police the suspicious financial records directly and laid out my theory plainly: there were serious financial irregularities inside Submer Group, Vice Chairman Victor Cross was a strong suspect for embezzlement, and my father's car accident might be connected to all of it. The same officer from last time. When he saw what I'd brought, his expression changed. "Miss Thorne, we'll open a formal investigation immediately. But until we have solid evidence, please don't do anything that might tip them off." I nodded. "I understand." I didn't go home when I left the station. I got in my car and drove somewhere else.
Back to the mountain road where my father's accident happened. It was a remote stretch of highway. Barely any traffic at the best of times. The official conclusion had been that the road was slick from rain and my father lost control of the car. Looking at it now, that conclusion had more holes in it than I could count. My father had been driving for decades. No matter how bad the road conditions, he wouldn't make a mistake like that. I parked on the road and looked down through the gap in the guardrail. A cliff dropped away below — dozens of meters down, thick with trees. That was where his car had gone over. He was found with severe head trauma, unconscious, and rushed to the hospital. I started picking my way down the slope. I wanted to see the scene of the accident up close. Maybe something had been missed. The ground was slippery. I fell several times, getting mud on my pants and hands. After about fifteen minutes, I reached the base of the cliff. His car — a black Bentley — had long since been towed away. All that remained was some broken debris and a long scar scraped into the earth. I searched the area carefully, not leaving a single corner unchecked. But aside from the wreckage and some crushed brush, I found nothing. The light was fading. Wind came down from the mountain, cold against my skin. I was about to give up when I noticed a small village not far off. A few lights glowed in the windows, still and quiet. A thought flashed through my mind. The accident happened in such an isolated spot. If anyone had witnessed something that night, it would have been someone from that village. I decided to try. I walked toward the lights. Near the entrance to the village, an elderly man sat on a stone step, smoking a pipe. I approached and greeted him politely. "Excuse me, sir. I was hoping you could help me with something." He looked up, studying me with clouded eyes. "What is it?" "A while back — on the night it rained heavily — there was a car accident up on the mountain road. Do you remember that?" The elderly man took a long drag from his pipe and nodded slowly. "That black car that came off the mountain. Terrible fall. Didn't know if whoever was inside lived or died." My breath caught. "Were you... there at the time? Did you see anything?" The elderly man squinted, as if pulling something up from his memory. "Rain was too heavy for me to go out. But I heard something." "What did you hear?" "Arguing." He paused. "Two men. Going at it hard. One of them kept shouting something like 'you can't do this.'" Two men. The air went out of my lungs. "Could you see what they looked like?" The old man shook his head. "Too dark. pouring rain. Couldn't make them out." He paused. "Though there was something strange." "What was strange?" "The two of them..." He tilted his head. "Their voices sounded exactly the same."
? Continue the story here ?? ? Download the "NovelMaster" app ? search for "433315", and watch the full series ✨! #NovelMaster