Chapter 4 - THE NAME ON THE LIST
I refused to believe it.
“No.”
Daniel didn't look away.
“I'm sorry.”
“Evan isn't involved.”
“I didn't say he was.”
“You just said his name is on the list.”
“Because someone used his identity.”
Vincent took the memory card.
“Explain.”
Daniel looked exhausted.
“Twelve years ago, someone inside the Marlowe organization created a second identity for Vincent's son.”
“Why?”
“To move money.”
Vincent's eyes narrowed.
“Evan was eight years old.”
“Exactly.”
The room went silent.
“His identity was clean,” Daniel continued. “No debts. No criminal history. No financial activity. Perfect for hiding accounts.”
“So someone used my son's name.”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
Daniel hesitated.
“Your brother.”
Vincent's face hardened.
“My brother died.”
“That's what everyone believes.”
I stared at him.
“You have a brother?”
“Had.”
Daniel shook his head.
“No.”
Vincent looked at him.
“What?”
“Your brother is alive.”
Vincent stepped closer.
“What is his name?”
Daniel whispered, “Marcus.”
Vincent's expression went blank.
I had heard the name once.
Years earlier.
An old photograph on Vincent's desk.
A young man standing beside him.
I had asked who it was.
Vincent had said only:
“My brother.”
Then he had removed the photograph.
Now I understood why.
Marcus Marlowe had supposedly died in a boating accident twenty years earlier.
But Daniel claimed he was alive.
And somehow, he had used Evan's identity to hide millions.
“Where is he?” Vincent asked.
“I don't know.”
“Then why tell us?”
“Because he knows where the vault is.”
Vincent turned toward me.
“Claire, go home.”
“No.”
“This is becoming dangerous.”
“It became dangerous when someone shot at me.”
“I can protect you.”
“You don't understand.”
I stepped closer.
“My father disappeared for twelve years. My mother spent years believing he was dead. Someone used Evan's identity. Someone tried to kill us tonight. I am not going home and pretending this isn't happening.”
Vincent stared at me.
Then he nodded.
“All right.”
Daniel looked between us.
“You shouldn't be together.”
I frowned.
“Why?”
“Because whoever is behind this knows Vincent cares about you.”
Vincent's eyes hardened.
Daniel sighed.
“And now they know you care about him.”
I looked at Vincent.
He didn't deny it.
The next morning, we moved to a secure property outside the city.
It was a beautiful old house surrounded by trees.
Vincent assigned guards to every entrance.
I hated it.
“I don't need six men following me.”
“You do now.”
“I can walk to the kitchen.”
“I know.”
“Then why is someone standing behind me?”
“Because someone shot at you yesterday.”
I turned.
“You're impossible.”
“And you're stubborn.”
“I learned from you.”
He almost smiled.
Then his phone rang.
He answered.
“Go.”
A pause.
His face changed.
“What hospital?”
He hung up.
“What happened?”
“Evan.”
My stomach dropped.
“What?”
“He was attacked.”
I ran.
The hospital smelled exactly the way I hated.
White lilies.
Disinfectant.
Fear.
Evan lay unconscious behind the glass of an intensive-care room.
His face was bruised.
One arm was broken.
A doctor explained that he'd been attacked in a parking garage.
Vincent stood beside me.
“Why would they attack him?”
“To send a message.”
I looked at him.
“What message?”
His voice was low.
“That they know what we found.”
Hours later, Evan woke.
I entered his room alone.
His eyes opened slowly.
When he saw me, he looked away.
“I'm sorry,” I whispered.
He said nothing.
“I didn't know.”
“You knew enough to reject me.”
The words hurt.
“Yes.”
He stared at the ceiling.
“Did my father tell you?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
I sat beside him.
“Because I love him.”
His eyes closed.
“I hate hearing that.”
“I know.”
“You always told me I was a good man.”
“You are.”
“Then why wasn't I enough?”
I couldn't answer.
After a long silence, he whispered:
“Because I knew something was wrong.”
I frowned.
“What?”
“About my father.”
“What do you mean?”
Evan looked at me.
“The night before the party, I found a file in his office.”
My heart stopped.
“What file?”
“My name.”
“Evan—”
“He had been investigating me.”
“Why?”
“I don't know.”
He reached beneath his pillow.
He pulled out a folded document.
“I stole this before they attacked me.”
I opened it.
At the top was a photograph of me.
Below it were three words.
CLAIRE MERCER — ASSET.
My hands went cold.
Then I saw Vincent's signature.
At the bottom.
May you like
And beneath it, another name.
Marcus Marlowe.
