Chapter 3 - THE DEAD MAN AT MY GATE
Thomas Vale looked older than the photograph.
That should have been obvious.
Eight years changes a man.
But some faces are frozen by funerals.
In my memory, Thomas was thirty-two.
Sharp suit.
Perfect hair.
The man who taught me to read balance sheets when my father decided I needed to understand where legitimate money ended and criminal money began.
The man standing beyond my north gate was forty.
Bearded.
Thin.
Scarred.
Alive.
Two security men searched him.
No weapon.
No phone.
No wallet.
Only a folded piece of paper and a cheap plastic rosary.
I approached alone.
Thomas gave me a tired smile.
“Andrew.”
I stopped six feet away.
“You’re dead.”
“I’ve heard.”
“I carried your coffin.”
“I’m sorry.”
“That is a very inadequate sentence.”
His smile disappeared.
“I know.”
“Why did you send Sophie to me?”
His eyes softened.
“So you figured it out.”
“Answer.”
“Because I needed someone powerful enough to keep her alive.”
“You could have gone to police.”
“No.”
“FBI?”
“No.”
“Why me?”
Thomas looked past me toward the estate.
“Because your father once told me that if everything went wrong, I should trust you.”
That hurt.
My father had been dead five years.
“What went wrong?”
“Everything.”
I opened the gate.
“Come inside.”
Thomas didn’t move.
“I told your men.”
“I heard.”
“Someone inside works for Marcus Whitaker.”
My blood cooled.
Marcus was my uncle.
My father’s younger brother.
Officially retired.
Unofficially the reason I inherited control of Milwaukee instead of fighting a civil war after my father died.
Marcus had stepped aside.
Or so I believed.
“What does my uncle have to do with this?”
Thomas laughed bitterly.
“Everything.”
I brought him into the old carriage house instead of the mansion.
Marco attended.
No one else.
Thomas refused food but drank two glasses of water.
Then he began.
Eight years earlier, my father had discovered money missing from several legitimate companies.
Not thousands.
Millions.
The theft had been disguised through construction accounts, trucking firms and charitable foundations.
My father suspected someone inside the organization.
Thomas traced the money.
“It led to Marcus,” he said.
Marco swore.
I remained still.
“Proof?”
“I had it.”
“Had?”
Thomas nodded.
“Marcus found out.”
“What did he do?”
“He ordered me killed.”
The car fire.
Thomas had been forced into a vehicle outside Madison.
Two men took him.
He escaped after the car crashed during a struggle.
One kidnapper died.
The second was badly burned.
Thomas used the corpse to disappear.
“Dental records?” I asked.
“Bribed medical examiner.”
“Funeral?”
“Marcus wanted everyone convinced.”
“So you let him bury someone under your name.”
“Yes.”
“You let Hannah think you were dead.”
Pain crossed his face.
“That wasn’t planned.”
“Six years.”
“Eight.”
“She was pregnant.”
“I didn’t know.”
“You know now.”
His eyes moved toward the mansion.
“I learned when Sophie was three.”
“Then why not go to them?”
“Because Marcus was still watching.”
“You watched too.”
“Yes.”
“You let her struggle.”
“I sent money.”
“Hannah never received money.”
Thomas looked startled.
“What?”
“Not enough to notice.”
“I sent twenty-five hundred every month through intermediaries.”
I looked at Marco.
“Trace it.”
He nodded.
Thomas rubbed his forehead.
“Then Marcus intercepted it.”
“Or someone did.”
“He knew.”
“He knew what?”
“About Sophie.”
“How?”
Thomas reached into his coat.
Marco moved instantly.
Thomas stopped.
“Paper.”
I nodded.
He removed the folded sheet.
Photocopy of a ledger.
Payments.
Dates.
Names.
One entry:
H.C. / CHILD — MONITOR ONLY
Next to it, a signature code.
M.W.
Marcus Whitaker.
My uncle had known about Sophie for years.
“Why monitor her?”
“Because of me.”
“You were supposedly dead.”
“Exactly.”
Thomas leaned forward.
“If I appeared, Marcus knew where I’d go.”
“Hannah.”
“And Sophie.”
“So they were bait.”
“Yes.”
I wanted to break something.
Instead, I asked, “Why now?”
“Because Marcus is sick.”
“With what?”
“Pancreatic cancer.”
I had seen him two weeks ago.
He looked thinner.
He told me it was stress.
“How long?”
“Maybe months.”
“And?”
“He’s cleaning up everything before he dies.”
“What does that mean?”
“Killing witnesses. Moving money. Rewriting ownership.”
I looked toward the mansion.
“What ownership?”
Thomas stared at me.
“The Whitaker organization.”
I almost laughed.
“I control it.”
“On paper.”
“I control the businesses.”
“Most.”
“Thomas.”
He looked tired.
“Your father changed his will before he died.”
I became still.
“What?”
“He discovered Marcus had stolen from him. He planned to remove him permanently.”
“Then Dad died.”
“Yes.”
My father died from a heart attack at fifty-nine.
Natural, according to doctors.
“What are you implying?”
Thomas said nothing.
That was answer enough.
“No.”
“Andrew.”
“No.”
“Your father’s medication was changed.”
Marco looked at me.
I felt nothing for several seconds.
Then too much.
“Proof?”
“I have a copy of the pharmacy report.”
“Where?”
“Hidden.”
“Why hide for eight years?”
“Because everyone I approached died.”
I stood.
Thomas continued quickly.
“Your father’s driver. Dead.”
I remembered.
Car accident.
“His accountant. Dead.”
Stroke.
“Medical assistant. Missing.”
I had never known.
Thomas looked at me.
“And my brother.”
I stopped.
“Your brother?”
“Daniel Vale.”
I knew the name.
My current financial controller.
A man who had worked for me for six years.
“Daniel is your brother?”
“Yes.”
“He told me you had no family.”
“He thinks I’m dead.”
“Is he loyal?”
“I don’t know anymore.”
That chilled me.
Thomas continued.
“The anonymous packet to child services wasn’t mine.”
“Then whose?”
“I think Marcus.”
“Why?”
“To force Hannah and the children out of your estate.”
“Why now?”
“Because Sophie saw him.”
“Marcus?”
“No.”
Thomas looked toward the mansion.
“Daniel.”
I frowned.
“When?”
“The day she went to the grocery store.”
Sophie had mentioned only Thomas.
“He was there?”
“In a car.”
“Why?”
“Watching me.”
The timeline tightened.
Thomas had approached Sophie.
Daniel had watched Thomas.
Someone had photographed Sophie with me later.
Everything connected.
“Where is Daniel now?”
Marco checked.
“He’s inside.”
“Find him.”
Thomas grabbed my wrist.
I looked down at his hand.
He released me immediately.
“Don’t.”
“Why?”
“Because if he’s still working for Marcus, he’ll run.”
“And if he’s not?”
Thomas looked broken.
“Then he’ll learn his brother has been alive for eight years.”
I stared at him.
“You expect sympathy?”
“No.”
“Good.”
My phone rang again.
This time Hannah.
I answered.
“Andrew.”
She sounded terrified.
“What?”
“Sophie’s gone.”
Every muscle in my body locked.
“What do you mean?”
“She was upstairs.”
“Security?”
“The guard is unconscious.”
I looked at Thomas.
His face went white.
Hannah continued.
“The twins are here. Sophie isn’t.”
“Stay inside.”
“Andrew—”
“I’m coming.”
I turned toward Marco.
“Lock every gate.”
Thomas stood.
“It’s Marcus.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Why Sophie?”
“Because she’s mine.”
I stared.
“So?”
Thomas looked like a man realizing something too late.
“Because I made a mistake.”
“What mistake?”
“I came here.”
His voice cracked.
“I proved to Marcus that Sophie is the one person I’ll come out of hiding for.”
We ran toward the mansion.
Halfway there, my phone buzzed.
A photograph.
Sophie sat inside an unfamiliar room.
Not crying.
Hands in her lap.
Beside her was a clock.
Under the photo:
BRING THOMAS TO ST. AGNES CHURCH AT MIDNIGHT. COME WITHOUT POLICE.
Then another message arrived.
OR THE GIRL LEARNS WHY HER FATHER WAS SUPPOSED TO STAY DEAD.
Thomas stared at the screen.
“She knows?”
“No.”
He closed his eyes.
“She’s going to.”
I looked at the clock.
Three hours.
And for the first time since I was sixteen, I felt something more dangerous than anger.
May you like
Fear.
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