Chapter 4
My father had been dead for seventeen years.
That was the sentence I repeated while a nurse wheeled me toward the NICU.
Dead.
Gone.
Lost in a boating accident off the North Carolina coast.
I had been seventeen.
My mother had been forty-one.
Arthur Vance had come to the memorial wearing a black suit and an expression of practiced sadness.
He told me my father had been "one of the finest men he'd ever known."
Then he paid for my first year of college.
At the time, I thought it was kindness.
Now I wanted to vomit.
"Clara?"
The nurse touched my shoulder.
I realized we had stopped.
Behind a glass wall, my son lay beneath soft lights.
Tiny.
Perfect.
Terrifyingly small.
A breathing tube rested beneath his nose.
Wires crossed his chest.
His fist was curled beside his cheek.
Every thought about Julian, Arthur, money, federal agents, and my father disappeared.
"That's him?"
The nurse smiled.
"That's him."
I pressed my fingers against the glass.
My whole body shook.
"Can I touch him?"
"Yes."
She helped me wash my hands, then wheeled me beside his incubator.
I slid one finger through the opening.
His tiny hand moved.
Then his fingers closed around mine.
I broke.
Not loudly.
There was no dramatic scream.
I simply bent my head and cried.
"Hi, baby."
His grip tightened.
"I'm your mom."
The words felt impossible.
Beautiful.
"I know this wasn't how you were supposed to arrive."
I swallowed.
"But I promise you something."
His chest rose quickly.
"I will never let them make you feel unwanted."
That was the promise Beatrice had broken for me long before he was born.
She had smiled through my fertility treatments.
Asked Julian whether he regretted marrying a woman who "couldn't perform the first duty of a wife."
When I miscarried our second pregnancy, she sent lilies and a note saying, Maybe God is redirecting Julian toward the future he deserves.
Julian told me she meant well.
I believed him because loving someone can make you stupid in very sophisticated ways.
My son moved again.
The nurse stepped closer.
"Have you chosen a name?"
I had.
Julian and I had agreed months earlier.
Arthur Julian Vance III.
Three generations packed into one child.
A monument to men who believed inheritance meant ownership.
I looked at my baby's tiny face.
"No."
The nurse waited.
I smiled.
"His name is Noah."
It had been my father's middle name.
Daniel Noah Mercer.
I would give my son the name of the man I remembered, not the family that had nearly destroyed him.
"Noah," the nurse repeated. "That's beautiful."
My phone buzzed in Rachel's hand behind me.
She had followed quietly.
Her expression changed.
"What?"
"Dana wants to talk."
I kissed my fingertip and touched Noah's hand.
"I'll be back."
The nurse wheeled me into a private consultation room.
Dana was waiting with a laptop and two coffee cups.
She pushed one toward Rachel.
Then she looked at me.
"How is he?"
"Fighting."
"Good."
"What did you find?"
Dana rotated the laptop.
A scanned document filled the screen.
At the bottom was my signature.
Above it were words I had never seen.
Authorization of International Asset Management Authority.
My heart pounded.
"That's not what I signed."
"We know."
"How?"
"Metadata from the legal department's document server."
Hope flashed through me.
Dana continued.
"The signature page originally belonged to an estate-planning document. Someone copied it into this agreement."
"Who?"
"User credentials belong to Julian."
Rachel sat forward.
"So Clara is cleared?"
"Of creating this document, likely. The investigation into the account continues, but this strongly supports identity theft and forgery."
I exhaled for what felt like the first time since waking.
Then Dana's expression changed.
"There's more."
I almost laughed.
"There is always more."
She opened another file.
A security image.
Arthur and another man standing outside a warehouse.
The date stamp was six years earlier.
The second man had gray hair.
A beard.
Half his face was turned away.
I couldn't breathe.
"Where did you get this?"
"Arthur's study."
I leaned closer.
The jaw.
The nose.
The strange way his left shoulder sat lower than his right.
My father had broken that shoulder when I was nine, falling from our garage roof while trying to retrieve my kite.
"No."
Rachel whispered, "Is that him?"
"I don't know."
But I did.
Somewhere beneath seventeen years of grief, I recognized him.
"That looks like my father."
Dana nodded.
"That's what I was afraid you'd say."
My throat tightened.
"The picture is six years old."
"Yes."
"He died seventeen years ago."
"Apparently not."
The room tilted.
I gripped the wheelchair arms.
"Why would Arthur have photographs of him?"
"We're trying to determine that."
"Julian said something about a red drive."
Dana's eyes sharpened.
I told her about the call.
Every word.
When I finished, she leaned back.
"Did he say what was on it besides evidence about your father?"
"No."
"Did Arthur ever mention a red drive?"
"Never."
"Where was the safe?"
"Behind a painting in his study."
"What did you see inside?"
I described everything.
Dana typed notes.
Then I remembered the envelope.
"Photographs."
"What photographs?"
"I forgot about them until now."
"What did they show?"
"Arthur with different people. Restaurants. Boats. Warehouses. I assumed business contacts."
"Any of your father?"
"I didn't look closely."
Dana stood.
"I'll have the evidence team review the envelope."
"Why would Julian think I took the drive?"
"Because someone did."
"Maybe Arthur moved it."
"He behaved during the search like he believed something was missing."
My stomach tightened.
"Who else knew the safe combination?"
"Julian."
"Beatrice?"
"Probably."
"Company executives?"
"Maybe Arthur's chief financial officer."
"Name?"
"Marcus Hale."
Dana stopped typing.
I noticed.
"What?"
"Marcus Hale hasn't reported to work today."
"So?"
"So his house is empty."
Rachel muttered, "Of course it is."
Dana closed the laptop.
"We're trying to locate him and Julian."
"Together?"
"We don't know."
A knock came at the door.
A nurse entered.
"Mrs. Vance?"
I looked up.
"Yes?"
"There's someone asking to see you."
Dana immediately stood.
"Who?"
The nurse seemed uncomfortable.
"Your mother-in-law."
Rachel laughed.
"No."
"Absolutely not."
The nurse nodded quickly.
"I can tell her—"
"Wait."
Everyone looked at me.
I had no desire to see Beatrice.
But if she had come to the hospital instead of hiding behind lawyers, there was a reason.
"Is she alone?"
The nurse nodded.
"Security searched her bag."
Dana frowned.
"I don't like it."
"Neither do I."
I looked at her.
"Stay nearby."
Rachel crossed her arms.
"I'm staying in the room."
"No."
"Clara—"
"If Beatrice thinks we're alone, she might talk."
Dana considered it.
Then nodded.
"We'll monitor from outside."
A few minutes later, Beatrice entered.
She had changed clothes.
Cream pantsuit.
Pearl earrings.
Perfect hair.
But there were dark circles beneath her eyes.
She looked at the wheelchair.
Then at the hospital bracelet.
For a moment, something like guilt flickered across her face.
It disappeared quickly.
"Where is the baby?"
"Safe."
"I asked where he is."
"And I answered."
Her lips tightened.
"He is a Vance."
"No."
"Clara."
"His name is Noah Mercer."
The words hit her like a slap.
"Mercer?"
"My maiden name."
"You cannot do that."
"I already did."
"Julian is his father."
"Julian is a fugitive who nearly killed him."
Beatrice stepped closer.
"You don't understand what you've done."
I laughed softly.
"I understand exactly."
"No. You think this is about money."
"It's usually about money with your family."
Her voice dropped.
"Arthur's business is bigger than Vance Holdings."
I studied her.
"What does that mean?"
She glanced at the door.
"He kept things from me."
"Arthur kept things from everyone."
"He had another network."
"What kind?"
"I don't know."
I watched her face.
She was frightened.
Truly frightened.
"Why are you here, Beatrice?"
She sat down.
Her hands shook slightly.
I had never seen that before.
"Julian called me."
"When?"
"An hour ago."
"From where?"
"I don't know."
"What did he say?"
She looked directly into my eyes.
"He said if I wanted him to stay alive, I had to get something from you."
"The red drive."
Her expression confirmed it.
"I don't have it."
"He thinks you do."
"I don't."
"Then find it."
I stared at her.
"Your son hit me hard enough to force our baby into emergency surgery, and you came here to give me errands?"
Beatrice's composure cracked.
"You don't understand. People are going to die."
"Who?"
She looked away.
"Beatrice."
She stood suddenly.
"I shouldn't have come."
I grabbed her wrist.
Pain shot through my abdomen, but I held on.
"Who is going to die?"
Her eyes filled.
The sight shocked me more than anything she had said.
Then she whispered, "Julian."
"Who threatened him?"
"Your father."
I let go.
The room became silent.
"My father?"
Beatrice stepped backward.
"Arthur told me he was dead."
"You just said—"
"I believed Arthur."
Her voice broke.
"Until six years ago."
"The photograph."
She stared.
"You found it."
"The FBI did."
Beatrice sat again.
This time she looked twenty years older.
"Your father came to the estate."
"When?"
"Six years ago. Middle of the night."
"Why?"
"I don't know. Arthur locked me upstairs."
"Did you see him?"
"Through the landing window."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
Her shame lasted exactly one second.
Then self-preservation returned.
"Arthur said your father was dangerous."
"And you believed him?"
"He said telling you could get Julian killed."
I felt rage rise slowly through me.
"Seventeen years."
"I didn't know all seventeen."
"Six years is enough."
"I was protecting my son."
"And who protected me?"
Beatrice looked away.
Nobody.
That was the answer.
Nobody protected me because my pain had always been cheaper than theirs.
I leaned forward.
"What happened that night?"
"I heard shouting in Arthur's study. Your father kept demanding something called Project Harbor."
Dana was listening outside.
I knew it.
I kept my expression neutral.
"What is Project Harbor?"
"I don't know."
"What happened next?"
"Arthur gave him a case."
"What kind?"
"Metal. Small."
"And?"
"Your father left."
"Did Arthur follow him?"
"No."
"Anything else?"
Beatrice's hands tightened.
"Arthur burned something in the fireplace."
"What?"
"I didn't see."
She stood again.
"I have told you enough."
"No, you haven't."
"Find the drive."
"I don't have it."
She reached the door.
Then paused.
"Clara."
I waited.
Her next words were barely audible.
"Ask Rachel."
My blood went cold.
"What?"
Beatrice opened the door.
"Ask your cousin where she was three nights ago."
Then she walked away.
Dana entered immediately.
Rachel was behind her.
But Rachel's face had changed.
She looked pale.
I stared at her.
"Rachel."
She didn't answer.
"Where were you three nights ago?"
Dana turned toward her.
Rachel swallowed.
"Clara, I can explain."
Every instinct inside me screamed.
"Explain what?"
She reached into her purse.
Dana's hand moved toward her holster.
Rachel froze.
Then slowly pulled out a small red USB drive.
She placed it on the table between us.
"I was trying to protect you."
I stared at it.
Seventeen years of lies seemed to sit inside an object smaller than my thumb.
"You stole it."
Rachel's eyes filled.
"Yes."
"From Arthur's safe?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
May you like
She looked at me with tears running down her face.
"Because your father told me to."
