Chapter 2 - The Man in the Photograph
Vincent stared at the phone until Marcus said his name twice.
“Vincent.”
No response.
“Vincent.”
He finally looked up.
Marcus followed his gaze to the photograph.
His face drained of color.
“That can’t be current.”
“It is.”
“How do you know?”
Vincent enlarged the image.
Behind Sara Ellis was a digital clock.
Tuesday.
11:42 a.m.
Less than four hours earlier.
Marcus swore under his breath.
Sophie tugged lightly on Vincent’s jacket.
“Is that my mom?”
Vincent locked the screen before she could see more.
“Yes.”
“Is she okay?”
He chose his words carefully.
“She’s alive.”
Sophie’s shoulders loosened with immediate relief.
Vincent wished he could feel the same.
But the man standing behind Sara in the photograph had made relief impossible.
Arthur Vale.
Vincent’s godfather.
Rebecca’s former attorney.
The man who had taught Vincent how to read contracts before signing them.
The man who stood beside him at Rebecca’s funeral.
Arthur had been part of Vincent’s life since he was nineteen.
If the photograph was real, then everything Vincent believed about Rebecca’s final months had just broken apart.
Marcus lowered his voice.
“Could be manipulated.”
“Then we verify.”
Vincent handed him the phone.
“Trace it.”
Marcus nodded.
Sophie watched both men.
“Who was with Mom?”
Vincent paused.
“Someone I know.”
“Is he bad?”
Children asked questions adults avoided.
Vincent looked at her.
“I don’t know anymore.”
They returned to Rowan House before sunset.
Sophie was given a guest room beside Vincent’s private sitting room rather than in the opposite wing.
He told himself it was for security.
Marcus did not comment.
A housekeeper named Elena found Sophie pajamas, warm socks, and hot chocolate.
Sophie ate exactly four marshmallows and left the fifth floating.
Vincent noticed because he noticed everything.
He also noticed she kept looking toward the library.
“You can go inside,” he said.
She glanced up from her cup.
“I thought nobody was allowed.”
“You are.”
“Why?”
Vincent had no answer that did not sound strange.
“Because I said so.”
She considered that.
“That doesn’t really explain it.”
Elena turned away quickly to hide a smile.
Vincent almost did the same.
Almost.
Instead he walked back into the library.
Rebecca’s photograph waited on the desk.
Marcus arrived ten minutes later carrying a tablet.
“The phone was a burner. No location history. Message bounced through multiple relays.”
“Arthur?”
“We found his car at his Center City office.”
“Where is he?”
“His assistant says he left at noon.”
“Cameras?”
“Garage camera lost twelve minutes of footage.”
Vincent folded his arms.
“Convenient.”
“There’s more.”
Marcus placed the tablet down.
“Sara Ellis worked for Rowan Holdings.”
Vincent frowned.
“No.”
“Not under that name.”
Marcus tapped the screen.
“Sara Mercer. Junior compliance analyst. Nine years ago.”
Vincent remembered the name.
Barely.
The company had been smaller then.
A hundred and twenty employees instead of thousands.
“What happened?”
“She resigned seven years ago.”
“When?”
Marcus looked at him.
“Three days after Rebecca died.”
Vincent sat slowly.
Rebecca’s death had been officially ruled a highway accident.
Her car had gone through a guardrail outside the city during heavy rain.
No other vehicle identified.
No evidence of foul play.
Vincent had spent months trying to prove otherwise because grief needed an enemy.
Eventually even he had accepted the investigators’ conclusion.
An accident.
He suddenly hated the word.
“What did Sara do in compliance?”
“She reviewed vendor payments.”
“Which vendors?”
“That’s what gets interesting.”
Marcus swiped.
“Vale Strategic Consulting.”
Arthur’s company.
Vincent said nothing.
“Payments totaled just over eight million dollars across eighteen months.”
“For what?”
“Services descriptions are vague. Risk assessment. Legal coordination. Security review.”
“I never approved eight million dollars.”
“Your father did.”
Vincent’s eyes narrowed.
His father, Charles Rowan, had died five years earlier.
Their relationship had been complicated even by Rowan family standards.
Powerful.
Demanding.
Obsessed with control.
Charles believed affection made men weak and secrecy kept them safe.
Vincent had spent half his life trying not to become him.
“Who authorized the individual transfers?”
Marcus turned the tablet.
Rebecca Rowan.
Vincent’s stomach tightened.
“No.”
“That’s what the signatures show.”
“They’re fake.”
“You’re sure?”
“My sister couldn’t authorize payments at that level.”
“She had temporary executive authority after your father’s surgery.”
Vincent remembered.
Six weeks.
He had been overseas negotiating a shipping acquisition.
Rebecca had helped Charles manage the foundation and several family accounts.
Eight million dollars had disappeared under her authorization.
Then she died.
Sara resigned.
Arthur remained.
Vincent looked toward the closed library door.
“And Sophie?”
Marcus hesitated.
“Her birth certificate lists Sara.”
“We saw that.”
“I checked the hospital record.”
Vincent waited.
“The hospital record doesn’t match.”
“What does that mean?”
“The original intake file lists another patient identification number under Sophie’s delivery.”
Vincent’s voice dropped.
“Whose?”
“Rebecca Rowan.”
The room went silent.
“That’s impossible.”
“Sophie was born seven years ago.”
“I know when Rebecca died.”
Marcus did not need to say the rest.
Rebecca died seven years ago.
Six weeks after Sophie’s birth.
Vincent stood so abruptly his chair rolled backward.
“No.”
“Vincent—”
“No.”
“We don’t know what it means.”
“My sister would have told me.”
“Would she?”
Vincent turned.
Marcus rarely challenged him.
Tonight, he did.
“You were in Singapore, London, Dubai. Your father controlled every schedule, every call. Rebecca barely spoke to you those last months.”
Vincent remembered unanswered messages.
Short conversations.
Rebecca saying she was tired.
Rebecca refusing to explain why.
He had blamed their father.
Maybe that was only part of it.
A soft knock sounded.
Sophie stood at the door.
Neither man had heard her approach.
“Sorry.”
Vincent immediately closed the tablet.
“What is it?”
“I found something.”
She held her stuffed rabbit.
Its faded gray fabric had been repaired across the stomach with uneven blue thread.
“My mom told me never to open this unless I was with you.”
Vincent stared.
“Open what?”
Sophie turned the rabbit over.
A tiny zipper had been sewn beneath one ear.
Vincent had never seen anything like it.
Sophie pulled.
Inside was a small brass key.
And a folded strip of paper.
Vincent took the note.
Rebecca’s handwriting.
Locker 417.
30th Street Station.
V + S only.
Vincent looked at Sophie.
“S means Sophie.”
She nodded.
“What does V mean?”
Her innocent question tightened something in his chest.
“Me.”
An hour later, Vincent and Sophie entered 30th Street Station through a side entrance.
Marcus and two agents followed at distance.
Locker 417 stood in an older section near baggage storage.
Vincent inserted the key.
It turned.
Sophie held his sleeve.
The door opened.
Inside was a black document case.
Nothing else.
Vincent carried it to a private security office.
The lock required no code.
Inside were financial records.
Photographs.
A flash drive.
And a sealed letter.
Vincent unfolded it.
Vinnie,
If Sophie is standing beside you while you read this, then everything I was afraid of finally happened.
He stopped.
Rebecca was the only person who had ever called him Vinnie.
His eyes burned.
Sophie quietly asked, “What does it say?”
Vincent continued.
Sophie is not Sara’s daughter.
She is mine.
For several seconds, he could not hear the station.
Not the announcements.
Not the footsteps.
Nothing.
He looked at Sophie.
The hazel eyes.
The eyebrow.
The dimple.
His niece.
Rebecca’s daughter.
Rebecca had a child.
And Vincent had spent seven years not knowing she existed.
Sophie whispered, “Why are you looking at me like that?”
Vincent crouched.
His voice nearly failed.
“Because I think Rebecca wasn’t your aunt.”
Sophie frowned.
“Then who was she?”
Vincent opened his mouth.
Marcus’s phone rang.
He answered.
His expression immediately hardened.
“What?”
Vincent stood.
Marcus listened for five seconds.
Then looked directly at him.
“Security breach at Rowan House.”
“Sophie stays with me.”
“That’s not the problem.”
“What is?”
Marcus held up the phone.
“Elena checked the guest room.”
Vincent’s pulse accelerated.
“There was someone inside.”
“Who?”
Marcus shook his head.
“They were already gone.”
Vincent looked down at Sophie.
“What did they take?”
Marcus answered quietly.
“Nothing.”
Then his voice changed.
“They left something on her pillow.”
Vincent waited.
“A photograph of Rebecca.”
Marcus swallowed.
“And someone wrote a date across her face.”
May you like
Vincent already knew the date before Marcus said it.
Tomorrow.
