Chapter 7 - Vincent’s First Lie
Damian reached the mansion in eleven minutes.
Marcus drove.
Clara was not supposed to be in the car.
She was anyway.
“You should have stayed with Noah,” Damian said.
“Mrs. Alvarez is my friend.”
“She is also surrounded by security.”
“Security that somehow missed Vincent entering your house.”
Damian had no response.
The gates were open.
Too open.
No guards at the booth.
Marcus drew his weapon.
Clara stared at him.
“I hate your workplace.”
“So do I,” Damian said.
They entered through the kitchen.
A chair lay overturned.
Vegetables were scattered across the floor.
Mrs. Alvarez’s phone lay beneath the preparation table.
No Mrs. Alvarez.
“Maria!” Clara shouted.
Damian looked at her.
“You know her first name?”
“Normal people learn each other’s names.”
They searched.
A sound came from the pantry.
Marcus opened it.
Mrs. Alvarez stepped out holding a cast-iron skillet.
Clara almost laughed from relief.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“What happened?”
“Vincent.”
“Where?”
“He came through the service entrance. Asked for Damian. When I reached for my phone, he knocked it away.”
“Did he hurt you?”
Mrs. Alvarez lifted the skillet.
“He reconsidered.”
Damian almost smiled.
“What did he want?”
“The kitchen desk.”
Clara and Damian looked at each other.
They opened it.
Empty.
Her notebooks were gone.
“Why take recipes?” Marcus asked.
Clara’s face changed.
“Not recipes.”
She crossed to the shelf.
“Clara?”
“My personal notebook.”
“What was in it?”
She hesitated.
“Everything I heard.”
Damian stared.
“You wrote it down?”
“I wrote down things that felt wrong.”
Vincent’s late-night conversations.
Supplier names.
Dates.
Cars arriving after midnight.
She hadn’t known what any of it meant.
But she had recorded it.
Damian closed his eyes briefly.
Vincent had been right.
Clara had heard too much.
Not because she was spying.
Because she paid attention.
Marcus searched the security system.
“Vincent left seven minutes ago.”
“Track him.”
“Already trying.”
Clara examined the kitchen.
One drawer remained open.
Inside lay an object that had not been there before.
Vincent’s silver watch.
Damian picked it up.
The back had been scratched.
Three numbers.
4-1-9.
Marcus frowned.
“Code?”
Clara shook her head.
“Table number.”
They looked at her.
“Restaurant supply catalog. Table 419 was the custom butcher block Vincent insisted we remove last year.”
“Where is it?”
“Basement storage.”
They went downstairs.
The butcher block stood beneath a sheet.
Marcus lifted it.
Nothing.
Clara crouched.
“There.”
A small compartment had been carved underneath.
Inside was a flash drive.
Vincent had hidden evidence in the mansion itself.
Damian connected it to an isolated laptop.
Files appeared.
Financial records.
Names.
Photographs.
Audio.
And a video.
Vincent sat across from Dr. Voss.
“You’ll handle Bennett’s records?”
“Yes.”
“And Cross?”
“He’ll blame her.”
Vincent smiled.
“He always blames the person standing closest when he’s angry.”
Damian’s face became stone.
Clara looked at him.
Vincent had understood him well.
Too well.
The recording continued.
Dr. Voss asked, “What happens after she’s gone?”
“Cross loses the last person in this house who talks to him like a human being.”
“And then?”
“Then he listens only to me.”
Damian stopped the video.
Nobody spoke.
Finally Clara said, “That was the plan.”
Damian nodded.
“Isolation.”
Vincent had not merely stolen money.
He had built a cage around Damian one removed relationship at a time.
The chef.
The driver.
The accountant.
Anyone independent enough to disagree.
Clara thought about the breakfast table.
Twelve men.
Everyone silent.
Everyone afraid.
She had believed Damian controlled the room.
Now she wondered how much Vincent had controlled by making sure nobody challenged him.
Marcus opened another folder.
“Boss.”
A spreadsheet listed payments.
One name repeated.
LEONARD VOSS.
Another appeared beneath it.
M. CROSS.
Damian stared.
Clara noticed.
“Who’s M. Cross?”
“My brother.”
“You have a brother?”
“Had.”
The single word stopped her.
Damian looked at the screen.
“Michael died eight years ago.”
Marcus clicked the account.
Transactions had been made last month.
Then yesterday.
Then that morning.
Someone was using a dead man’s identity.
Damian’s phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
A photograph arrived.
Vincent stood beside a car.
Clara’s notebook was in his hand.
Behind him was a man whose face remained in shadow.
Text appeared beneath it.
ASK DAMIAN HOW HIS BROTHER REALLY DIED.
Clara looked at Damian.
His face had gone completely white.
Then another message arrived.
A location.
And four words.
COME ALONE OR SHE LEARNS.
Damian reached for his coat.
Clara blocked the door.
“Who was Michael?”
Damian looked at her.
And for the first time since she had known him, fear—not anger—filled his eyes.
“He was the reason Vincent came into my life.”
Then someone knocked on the kitchen door.
Marcus checked the camera.
Nobody was there.
Only a package.
Damian opened it.
Inside was a photograph of two young men.
Damian.
Michael.
And standing between them was Vincent Hale.
On the back, someone had written:
May you like
ONE BROTHER DIED.
THE WRONG ONE SURVIVED.
