Chapter 2 - THE MAN IN THE CAR
For several seconds, nobody moved.
The music outside continued.
Violin.
Cello.
Piano.
A beautiful melody drifting through the mansion while my entire understanding of my life began collapsing.
“My father is dead,” I said.
Vincent didn't answer.
I stared at him.
“You just said someone found his car.”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Westlake County.”
My stomach tightened.
That was impossible.
My father, Daniel Mercer, had disappeared on a rainy Tuesday twelve years ago.
His car had been found two days later near the river.
The driver's door was open.
His wallet was inside.
His watch was still on the dashboard.
There had been no body.
The police eventually classified him as presumed dead.
My mother never accepted it.
She kept his photograph on the mantel until dementia made her forget who he was.
I had spent twelve years believing I had lost him.
“You said someone claims to have proof,” I whispered.
Vincent nodded.
“Who?”
“Detective Samuel Hart.”
I stared at him.
The name meant nothing.
Evan stepped closer.
“Dad, what is going on?”
Vincent looked at his son.
“Not here.”
“You just told me Claire's father might be alive.”
“I said someone has information.”
“That's not what you said.”
“Evan.”
There was something in Vincent's voice that made his son stop.
I had heard that tone before.
It meant danger.
Real danger.
Vincent walked toward his desk and opened a locked drawer.
He removed a small black envelope.
He handed it to me.
My fingers trembled as I opened it.
Inside was a photograph.
An older man stood beside a dark sedan.
Gray hair.
Thin face.
Deep lines around his eyes.
I knew him immediately.
My father.
The photograph had been taken recently.
“Where did this come from?”
“Detective Hart.”
“When?”
“Three hours ago.”
I stared at the photograph.
My father looked older.
Alive.
Behind him was a building with a faded blue sign.
I knew that building.
“That's St. Mary's.”
Vincent nodded.
“Closed psychiatric facility?”
“Yes.”
“Why would my father be there?”
“That is what we're going to find out.”
Evan stepped forward.
“I'll come.”
Vincent looked at him.
“No.”
“I can help.”
“You're emotional.”
“My fiancée just rejected me for you.”
Vincent's expression tightened.
Evan laughed bitterly.
“Don't worry. I'm not going to shoot anyone over it.”
“Evan.”
“I said I'm coming.”
I looked between them.
“I'm coming too.”
Vincent turned toward me.
“No.”
“You just said it concerns my father.”
“I know.”
“Then I have more reason to go than anyone.”
He stared at me for several seconds.
Finally he nodded.
“We leave in ten minutes.”
Evan looked stunned.
“Dad—”
“You stay here.”
“No.”
“Evan.”
“I said no.”
Vincent walked directly toward his son.
For a moment, they stood face-to-face.
“You're hurt,” Vincent said.
“Yes.”
“You're angry.”
“Yes.”
“And if you come with us, you'll make decisions based on both.”
Evan's jaw tightened.
“Maybe I deserve the truth.”
Vincent's eyes softened slightly.
“You do.”
He turned away.
“But not tonight.”
Evan looked at me.
There was pain in his eyes.
“I loved you.”
“I know.”
“You could have chosen me.”
“I couldn't.”
His gaze moved to his father.
“And you chose him.”
“I didn't choose tonight.”
“Maybe you did.”
He walked away.
I watched him disappear through the doorway.
For the first time, I felt the full weight of what my confession had done.
Then Vincent touched my arm.
“Claire.”
I looked at him.
“If you come with me, you need to understand something.”
“What?”
“If your father really is alive, there is a reason he stayed hidden.”
“From whom?”
Vincent's eyes darkened.
“From people who have been trying to find him for twelve years.”
The drive to Westlake took forty minutes.
Rain began halfway there.
I sat beside Vincent in the back seat.
Neither of us spoke.
Finally, I asked the question that had been burning inside me.
“Did you know my father?”
Vincent looked out the window.
“Yes.”
My heart stopped.
“How?”
“He worked for my father.”
I turned toward him.
“Doing what?”
“Accounting.”
“That doesn't explain anything.”
“He discovered something.”
“What?”
Vincent was silent.
Then he said, “A ledger.”
“What kind?”
“The kind that can destroy powerful men.”
I stared at him.
“And my father disappeared because of it?”
“I believe so.”
“Do you?”
Vincent finally looked at me.
“I've spent twelve years trying to find out.”
I frowned.
“Why?”
His expression softened.
“Because your father saved my life.”
The car stopped outside St. Mary's.
The building was abandoned.
Windows broken.
Vines climbing the brick walls.
Detective Hart waited beneath the awning.
He was in his sixties, broad-shouldered, with rain dripping from the brim of his hat.
“You're Vincent Marlowe,” he said.
“Yes.”
His eyes moved to me.
“And you're Claire Mercer.”
“Yes.”
Hart nodded.
“I wish I had better news.”
“Where is my father?”
Hart looked toward the dark building.
“Inside.”
My heart slammed against my ribs.
We followed him through the broken doors.
The hallway smelled of mildew and dust.
At the end was a small room.
Hart opened it.
An old man sat beside the window.
His hair was completely gray.
His shoulders were bent.
But when he turned—
I knew his eyes.
“Claire?”
My knees nearly gave out.
“Dad?”
He stood.
I ran to him.
His arms wrapped around me.
He was real.
Warm.
Breathing.
Alive.
I cried into his shoulder like a child.
Then he whispered something that made my blood freeze.
“I've been waiting twelve years to warn you.”
I pulled away.
“Warn me about what?”
His eyes moved past me.
Toward Vincent.
He stared at him.
“You shouldn't have brought her here.”
Vincent stepped forward.
“Daniel.”
My father flinched.
“You know him?”
Daniel looked at me.
“I know exactly who Vincent Marlowe is.”
May you like
Then he lowered his voice.
“And if you love him, Claire, you're already in danger.”
