Chapter 3 - My Father's Last Four Days
I didn't show Dominic the message immediately.
That decision scared me.
Twenty-four hours earlier, I would have handed my phone to David and asked him what to think.
Now I trusted nobody.
Not David.
Not Dominic.
Not Uncle Richard.
Maybe not even my own memories.
“Claire?”
Dominic had noticed my face.
I locked the screen.
“Spam.”
His eyes stayed on mine.
He knew I was lying.
He didn't challenge me.
That made me trust him slightly more, which irritated me.
We left the storage facility with copies of Dad's letter and photographs. Everything else stayed where it was until an attorney could properly secure it.
Dominic drove me to a hotel under my maiden name.
“Your people own this?” I asked.
“No.”
“Your family?”
“No.”
“Then why here?”
“Because David expects me to hide you somewhere connected to me.”
I looked at him.
“So you're hiding me somewhere boring?”
“Exactly.”
The room was ordinary.
That felt luxurious.
No marble.
No staff.
No cameras I knew about.
I locked the door behind Dominic and sat on the bed.
Then I looked at the photograph again.
Dad stood between David and Uncle Richard outside a downtown restaurant.
Richard had been my father's opposite.
Dad was disciplined.
Richard was charming.
Dad saved birthday cards.
Richard forgot birthdays but sent expensive gifts three weeks later.
After Dad died, Richard held me through the funeral.
He had told me, “Arthur worried too much. He always did.”
Now I wondered what he'd meant.
I called him.
He answered on the fourth ring.
“Claire?”
“You're awake.”
“So are you.”
“I need to see you.”
Silence.
“At one in the morning?”
“Yes.”
“Is David there?”
“No.”
Another silence.
“Where are you?”
I didn't answer.
“Claire, what's happened?”
“Did Dad meet you the day before he died?”
Richard stopped breathing.
That was enough.
“Where did you hear that?”
“Did he?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Not over the phone.”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“My house. Nine.”
“No. Public place.”
He sighed.
“All right.”
We chose a diner in Evanston.
Before hanging up, Richard said, “Claire?”
“Yes?”
“Don't tell David you're meeting me.”
I laughed once.
“You're three years late.”
I ended the call.
Then I opened the anonymous message again.
DON'T TRUST THE MAN WITH YOU.
I typed:
Who are you?
The reply arrived instantly.
SOMEONE WHO FAILED YOUR FATHER.
Then:
ASK DOMINIC WHAT HIS UNCLE WANTED FROM ARTHUR.
I barely slept.
At eight thirty the next morning, Dominic knocked.
Coffee in one hand.
A paper bag in the other.
“You look terrible.”
“So do you.”
“I always look like this.”
I took the coffee.
“I'm meeting my uncle.”
“I'll drive.”
“No.”
He considered arguing.
Didn't.
“Then take this.”
He offered me a cheap prepaid phone.
“No tracking connected to your accounts.”
“You think David tracks me?”
“I think David spent years controlling you. People like that rarely surrender access voluntarily.”
I thought about my shared phone plan.
Our cloud account.
The location settings David had insisted were “for emergencies.”
I turned my phone off.
At nine, Richard was already in the diner.
He stood when I entered.
Sixty-one.
Silver hair.
Camel coat.
The same expensive cologne he'd worn at Dad's funeral.
Then he saw my face.
“What happened?”
“David.”
Richard closed his eyes.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
“You knew.”
“Claire—”
“You knew.”
“I suspected.”
“How long?”
He sat down slowly.
“About a year.”
I couldn't breathe.
“A year?”
“You stopped returning calls.”
“Because David took my phone.”
“I didn't know that.”
“You could have come over.”
“I did.”
I remembered.
One Sunday.
David had told me Richard arrived drunk and started insulting him.
I had stayed upstairs.
Had Richard even been drunk?
“Why didn't you help me?”
“Because every time I pushed, David cut me off further.”
“You could have called the police.”
“And told them what? That my adult niece wouldn't speak to me?”
I hated that his answer made some sense.
Not enough.
But some.
I put Dad's photograph on the table.
Richard stared at it.
“Why did Dad write that you lied?”
His face drained.
“Where did you get this?”
“Answer me.”
Richard looked toward the windows.
Then he whispered, “Arthur came to me December sixteenth.”
“The day before he died.”
“Yes.”
“He was frightened.”
“My father wasn't easily frightened.”
“No.”
Richard rubbed both hands over his face.
“He had discovered what David was doing.”
“What?”
“Selling access. Information. Introductions. Using your father's name to make people believe he had influence over cases.”
“Did Dad know about the mechanic?”
“No.”
“Then why was he killed?”
“I don't know.”
“You're lying.”
“I don't know who killed him.”
“That's not what I asked.”
Richard looked at me.
There it was.
A distinction.
A lawyer's distinction.
“What do you know?”
“Arthur gave me an envelope.”
“What was inside?”
“Documents.”
“Where are they?”
“I destroyed them.”
I stared at him.
“You what?”
“He asked me to deliver them to federal investigators if anything happened.”
“And you destroyed them?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Richard's eyes filled.
“Because David came to me first.”
My hands went cold.
“What did he say?”
“That the documents implicated me.”
“In what?”
“A company.”
“Wexler Consulting?”
Richard looked stunned.
I had my answer.
“You were involved.”
“Not the way Arthur believed.”
“Then explain.”
Richard leaned forward.
“Years earlier, I introduced David to a consultant named Martin Wexler. Political strategy. Corporate problems. Background work. I didn't know Wexler was paying people for confidential information.”
“But Dad found out.”
“Yes.”
“And your name was on the records.”
“Yes.”
“So David threatened you.”
“He said if I handed over Arthur's files, he'd make sure I went down with him.”
“You chose yourself.”
Richard looked away.
“Yes.”
The honesty hurt more than another lie.
“Dad trusted you.”
“I know.”
“He died the next day.”
“I know.”
“And you spent three years having Thanksgiving dinner with me.”
Richard began crying.
Quietly.
I felt nothing.
“Did you know David hurt me?”
“Not then.”
“Did you suspect Dad's crash wasn't an accident?”
Richard didn't answer.
I stood.
He grabbed my wrist gently.
“Claire, wait.”
I pulled away.
“Don't touch me.”
He released me immediately.
“There is something else.”
I stayed standing.
“Arthur didn't give me everything.”
“What did he keep?”
“I don't know. But he said there were three copies.”
“Three?”
“One for me. One for Evelyn.”
“And the third?”
“He wouldn't say.”
I remembered Dad's video.
There is one person I still trust completely.
“Who was Dad meeting?”
“I don't know.”
“Was it Dominic?”
Richard's expression changed.
“Rossi?”
“You know him.”
“Arthur knew his grandfather.”
“What did Dominic's uncle want from Dad?”
Richard stared.
“Who told you to ask that?”
My stomach dropped.
“Answer.”
“Dominic's uncle, Salvatore Rossi, wanted Arthur to reopen questions around an old corruption investigation.”
“Why?”
“Because Wexler had connections to the prosecutor who tried to frame Dominic's grandfather.”
Everything was connecting.
Too neatly.
“Did Dominic know Dad?”
“I don't think so.”
I left without saying goodbye.
Outside, my prepaid phone rang.
Only Dominic had the number.
“Hello?”
“Don't go back to the hotel,” he said.
“Why?”
“Someone entered your room.”
I stopped walking.
“What?”
“The hotel called me because my card was on the reservation.”
“What was taken?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why break in?”
A pause.
“They left something.”
“What?”
“A photograph.”
My throat tightened.
“Of what?”
“You.”
“When?”
“Last night.”
I turned slowly.
People crossed the street.
Cars moved through traffic.
Anyone could be watching.
“What does it say?”
Dominic hesitated.
“Tell me.”
“It's a photograph of you sleeping.”
My entire body went cold.
Then he added:
“And whoever took it wrote a name across your pillow.”
“What name?”
Dominic answered.
“Evelyn Mercer.”
Behind me, a woman whispered:
“Claire.”
I turned.
A red-haired woman stood ten feet away.
May you like
She looked directly at me.
And she was holding my father's wedding ring.
