I loved my grandfather very much, the man who raised and cared for me from a young age. One day after my grandfather died, the police showed up at the funeral – simply because of a note he left in his desk drawer: “If I die, please investigate who came to my house at 7:17 a.m.”… After reviewing the security camera footage, they immediately took me away…
My name is Caleb Miller. I grew up in the small town of Riverwood, on the outskirts of Oregon. My life revolved around one person: my grandfather, Elias.
My parents died in a car accident when I was five years old. Since then, my grandfather has been my father, my mother, my whole universe. Elias was a man of incredible routine and order. He owned a small antique shop in the heart of Riverwood, where the smell of old wood, yellowed paper, and polishing wax always lingered in the air.
He taught me how to repair antique clocks, how to identify genuine porcelain, and most importantly, he taught me about honesty and unconditional love. Our little log cabin was right by the river, with a porch featuring an old swing chair where we would often sit and watch the sunset cast its golden light on the water. It was the only peaceful place I knew.
When I was twenty-two, having just graduated from college with a degree in Software Engineering, tragedy struck.
Mr. Elias passed away peacefully in his sleep, at the age of eighty-five. The doctor concluded it was due to old age and spontaneous cardiac arrest. Though heartbroken, I knew that was how he wanted to leave—quietly, without disturbance. I held the funeral according to his wishes: simple, at St. Jude's Church, with a small tea party afterward in our backyard.
I had lost my only remaining relative. I felt like a ship adrift without a nautical chart.
The funeral took place on a somber Saturday afternoon. About fifty people—mostly elderly neighbors, a few old school friends, and Father Michael—came to say goodbye to Mr. Elias.
As the tea party was drawing to a close, and I was trying to remain calm while chatting with Mrs. Ethel, a blue and white police patrol car pulled up and screeched to a halt on the lawn.
Two officers stepped out. One was Sheriff Holden, a large man with a gray mustache. The other was Detective Lopez, a sharp, young woman. Both were familiar faces in town.
“Caleb,” Sheriff Holden said, his voice low and cautious. “I'm sorry to interrupt at this time, but we've received a rather… unusual call.”
I looked at them in confusion. “About what, sir? Everything has been confirmed by the doctor as a natural cause.”
Detective Lopez stepped forward. “We have no doubts about Elias's death, Caleb. But we found this.”
She held up a light brown, sealed envelope.
“This is the envelope that came with a copy of Mr. Elias's will, kept in his locked desk drawer, at the request of his lawyer. It contains only one piece of paper, Caleb.”
I swallowed hard. That desk drawer was where he kept his most valuable possessions.
Detective Lopez read aloud, her voice cold and professional:
“If I die, please investigate who came to my house at 7:17 a.m..”
The room fell silent. All eyes were on me.
Holden looked at me. “He didn't write the date, he didn't specify which day it was 7:17 a.m. But Mr. Elias's lawyer, who had a spare key, found it this morning while preparing to seal the estate.”
I felt a wave of dizziness. “He… what did he say? 7:17 a.m.? I'm always the earliest riser. I don't remember anyone coming to the house at that time, except for the mailman…”
“The mailman never arrives earlier than 9 a.m. in this area, Caleb,” Detective Lopez interrupted. “And Mr. Elias is an extremely meticulous man. He wouldn't write a sentence like that just because of a harmless delivery person.”
Chief Holden sighed. “We don't want to create a scene, Caleb. But he clearly left a clue. We need to get to the bottom of it, for him, and for your own safety. Do you have security cameras?”
I remembered: “Yes, I have a smart doorbell camera that I installed last year. It stores data in the cloud.”
“Good,” Lopez said, her eyes sparkling. “That's where we start.”
Everyone left, and the house became eerily silent.
I escorted Sheriff Holden and Detective Lopez into my office. I logged into my security camera account on my laptop. The data was encrypted and stored, but accessing specific video footage wasn't difficult.
“We'll start with the day he died, last Thursday,” Lopez suggested.
I entered the date, then dragged the time slider to 7:17 a.m. The computer began loading the data. All three of us held our breath watching the screen.
The video began. It was a blurry image of early morning, fog still clinging to the lawn.
7:17:01 AM: Nothing. Just trees.
7:17:15 AM: An old, black sedan, without license plates, drifted gently across the street in front of the house. It stopped, but not in front of our house.
7:17:35 AM: A figure stepped out of the car. Tall, thin, wearing a baseball cap and a medical mask. The person bowed their head low and walked towards our house.
7:17:42 AM: The camera recorded this person standing in front of the door. They didn't ring the doorbell.
They knocked softly, twice, in a very peculiar rhythm.
Then, the unbelievable happened.
7:17:50 AM: The door opened. And the person who opened it was Mr. Elias.
My grandfather was wearing his old bathrobe, his face less stern than usual, looking surprised and a little… worried. He looked at the stranger. They exchanged a few words.
And then, Mr. Elias stepped aside and invited the man inside.
The stranger entered. The door closed.
They were inside for eight and a half minutes.
7:26:20 AM: The door opened. The stranger stepped out. He didn't look back. He went straight to his black car, got into the driver's seat, and sped away.
Mr. Elias stood in the doorway for a moment, his hand gripping the hem of his bathrobe. On his face, I could clearly see the tension, the fear. Then he sighed, shook his head, and closed the door.
That was the last time I saw my grandfather on camera.
I turned to Sheriff Holden, my face pale. “I… I didn't hear anything. I was fast asleep. He let a stranger into the house!”
“We need to look at the other days,” Detective Lopez said, her face becoming serious. “If he wrote this letter after he was dead, that implies this person was involved in his death. But he appears to have opened the door voluntarily. Was it an agreement, or coercion?”
We spent the next two hours reviewing all the video footage from 7:17 a.m. two weeks prior.
Tuesday: Nothing.
Monday: Nothing.
Sunday: Nothing.
Saturday: Nothing.
Friday: (The day before he died)
Again the black sedan. Again the thin, masked figure. Again the two distinct knocks. And again Mr. Elias opened the door and invited in.
But this time, the meeting lasted only five minutes. When the stranger left, I saw Mr. Elias holding a small brown paper bag. He immediately went straight into the kitchen.
Tuesday (Last week):
Again the stranger. This time, the meeting lasted twelve minutes. When the stranger left, he wasn't wearing a mask.
And that's why the police took me.
Detective Lopez zoomed in on the man's face. The image wasn't perfect, but it was sharp enough to recognize him.
It was a gaunt face, with cold gray eyes. Nothing particularly striking, except for a small crescent-shaped scar just above his left eyebrow.
I stared at the photograph. Sheriff Holden growled, “Do you recognize him, Caleb?”
I looked up at them, my breath catching in my throat. I didn't know the man. I'd never seen him in Riverwood. I certainly hadn't seen him at my grandfather's antique shop.
“No, I've never…” I began, but then a memory flooded back, an old, long-forgotten fragment.
“Wait,” I said, my voice trembling. “That scar…”
I got up and went to my grandfather's old bookshelf. I knew he kept an old photo album there, something he rarely mentioned. I took it out.
Opening to the last page, there was a picture of Elias when he was young, around thirty, standing next to two other men. They were wearing U.S. Army uniforms from the 1960s.
I pointed to one of the men. He had that crescent-shaped scar too.
“This is…” I began.
Detective Lopez stared at the computer screen. She quickly flipped to that page of the photo album.
“Mr. Elias wasn't the only one who sent this letter, Caleb,” she said, her voice dry.
She pointed to the man in the photo standing next to Mr. Elias, the one with the scar. “This is Joseph. He was your grandfather's comrade-in-arms in Vietnam. Joseph also had a similar letter, found three weeks ago, when he died in an ‘accident' at the nursing home in Arizona.”
“And this man?” She pointed to the third man in the photo.
“He…is Uncle Frank. He was my grandfather's best friend. He died two months ago of a ‘stroke' at his home in Florida. His family also found a letter in his desk drawer, with the words: ‘Don't trust anyone who comes at 7:17 a.m.'”
Detective Lopez slowly turned to look at the enlarged camera image. She had entered a series of data into the national facial recognition database.
And a result appeared. The name was Benjamin “Ben” Carson. The records showed Ben Carson to be an average-looking man, but with a notable past: a former mail carrier who had been investigated for the theft of classified documents twenty years ago, but there wasn't enough evidence to convict him.
“The records show Ben Carson lived a reclusive life, moving frequently, and doing unnamed jobs. Nothing remarkable, until today.”
Detective Lopez looked at me, her eyes very serious. “Caleb, we can't arrest him just because he showed up at 7:17 a.m. But what we can do is investigate whether your grandfather, along with his two fellow fighters, is connected to some shared secret that this man is searching for.”
“Your grandfather was trying to protect someone, or something…”
That's it. And he succeeded. He got what he wanted. All your grandfather has left is this warning letter. But why did he open the door for him?
I thought about Elias. His habits, his orderliness, his love. He had acted perfectly: He left a clear clue, but no direct evidence to incriminate Ben Carson. He knew that if he resisted, Carson would act violently. He had risked his life to ensure that the secret they were hiding wouldn't be revealed, but the one who came looking for him had to be investigated.
“He…” I said. “He was always a brilliant planner.”
“That's precisely why,” Detective Lopez stood up. “We can't leave you alone, Caleb. Ben Carson knows you're Elias's only remaining relative and the heir to the antique shop—the place where that secret might be hidden. He's killed three friends.” “He won't stop.”
She ordered Sheriff Holden, “Holden, get the car ready. We can't leave him here.”
“But… where are we going?” I asked, feeling my body tremble.
Detective Lopez stepped forward, placing her hand on my shoulder, her eyes filled with both sympathy and determination. “You're in a federal investigation, Caleb. We need to get you to a safe place. It's called the Federal Witness Protection Program, temporarily. We have to find out what happened to these men, and why they're being hunted. You're the only living clue left.”
“But…”
“We'll protect you,” she interrupted. “Your grandfather did the right thing.” “Now it's time for us to do our part.”
I looked at my half-closed suitcase, containing a few clothes and my most precious possessions. I looked at the study where my grandfather and I had shared thousands of moments. I felt hot tears rolling down my cheeks.
7:17 a.m. wasn't a random time. It was a code. A code my grandfather had placed on the Pandora's Box he was protecting.
Chief Holden opened the door. “Let's go, Caleb.”
I stood up and walked out of the house that had once been my paradise. The police car took me away, leaving behind death, pain, and an unanswered question:
What secret had the three old soldiers been hiding since the 1960s, and what would the killer do next to uncover it?