Chapter 3 - Rebecca’s Daughter
Vincent did not take Sophie back to Rowan House.
For the first time in eighteen years, he ignored every security protocol he had personally designed.
They went instead to a private apartment above one of Rowan Holdings’ oldest commercial buildings near Rittenhouse Square.
Only Marcus knew the location.
No staff.
No drivers.
No household employees.
Vincent cooked scrambled eggs at midnight because Sophie said she was hungry.
He burned the first batch.
Sophie watched from the kitchen island.
“You’re not very good at that.”
“No.”
“My mom puts cheese in them.”
“I have cheese.”
“You put it in before you ruin them.”
Vincent looked at the blackened pan.
“Useful timing.”
Sophie smiled.
It was the first time he had seen her do it.
The smile hurt.
Rebecca’s smile.
Not identical.
Enough.
Vincent turned toward the stove before Sophie could see his face.
At 1:20 a.m., she finally fell asleep on the sofa with the stuffed rabbit tucked beneath her chin.
Marcus joined Vincent near the windows.
“Letter?”
Vincent handed it over.
Marcus read silently.
Rebecca’s message explained only part of the truth.
She had discovered irregular company transfers during Charles Rowan’s illness.
Arthur Vale had insisted the payments were legitimate.
Rebecca disagreed.
She began collecting evidence.
Then she learned she was pregnant.
The father was not named.
Rebecca feared someone would use her child to control her if her investigation became known.
She gave birth privately under an altered hospital record arranged by Sara Mercer.
Sara became Sophie’s legal mother.
Six weeks later, Rebecca died.
Sara disappeared from Rowan Holdings and raised Sophie as her own.
The letter ended with a warning.
Do not trust anyone who tells you my death was an accident.
Vincent stared at the city lights.
“I should have known.”
Marcus folded the letter.
“How?”
“I was her brother.”
“You were thousands of miles away.”
“I stopped calling because she kept shutting me out.”
“She was trying to protect you.”
“That doesn’t make it easier.”
“No.”
Marcus studied him.
“But Sophie’s alive because Rebecca trusted someone enough to hide her.”
“Sara.”
“And apparently you.”
Vincent looked toward the sleeping child.
“I wasn’t there.”
“You are now.”
Vincent hated how much those three words mattered.
By morning they had analyzed the flash drive.
Most files were encrypted.
One folder opened.
Inside were images of Rowan financial records.
Payments to shell companies.
Land purchases.
Offshore transfers.
The name Vale appeared repeatedly.
So did Charles Rowan.
And another name.
Daniel Mercer.
Sara’s older brother.
Marcus searched.
“Daniel Mercer died eight years ago.”
“How?”
“Reported suicide.”
Vincent looked over.
“Reported?”
“I’m learning not to trust convenient deaths.”
One photograph showed Daniel with Rebecca outside Rowan Holdings.
Another showed Arthur Vale arguing with Daniel in a parking garage.
Timestamp: three weeks before Daniel died.
Sophie entered rubbing her eyes.
Vincent immediately closed the screen.
“Morning.”
She climbed onto a chair.
“Did you find Mom?”
“Not yet.”
She nodded.
No crying.
No complaint.
That frightened him more.
“Sophie.”
She looked up.
“You don’t have to pretend you’re okay.”
“I’m not pretending.”
“What are you doing?”
“Waiting.”
“For what?”
“For you to fix it.”
Vincent had negotiated billion-dollar deals without feeling pressure like that sentence.
He pulled out the chair beside her.
“I’m going to try.”
Sophie’s expression became serious.
“My mom said powerful people always say they’ll try when they don’t want to promise.”
Vincent blinked.
“She said that?”
“She watches the news.”
He almost laughed.
Instead he said, “Then I promise I will not stop looking.”
Sophie nodded.
“Okay.”
Marcus’s phone buzzed.
A location.
The burner phone that had sent Sara’s photograph had connected briefly to a cell tower in South Philadelphia.
An abandoned medical records warehouse purchased years earlier by Vale Strategic.
Vincent stood.
Marcus immediately said, “You’re not going.”
“Yes.”
“Sophie?”
“With Elena’s sister.”
“No.”
Sophie’s voice came from behind them.
Vincent turned.
“No?”
“I’m going with you.”
“Absolutely not.”
“You said you wouldn’t leave me.”
“I said I wouldn’t stop looking for your mother.”
“You’re my uncle.”
The sentence landed without warning.
Vincent stared.
Sophie had understood.
“How did you—”
“I heard you talking last night.”
“Sophie—”
“If Rebecca was my real mom, then you’re my uncle.”
Vincent crouched.
“Yes.”
Her eyes filled, but she fought the tears.
“Does that mean Sara isn’t my mom?”
“No.”
He answered quickly.
“Sara raised you. Loved you. Protected you. Nothing changes that.”
“But Rebecca—”
“Was your mother too.”
“Can I have two?”
Vincent’s throat tightened.
“Yes.”
Sophie nodded as if solving an arithmetic problem.
“Then I’m still going.”
“No.”
“That part wasn’t a question.”
Vincent actually laughed.
Marcus turned away.
Sophie smiled again.
For one second, the fear left the room.
Then reality returned.
Vincent arranged a secure location for Sophie with three guards and Elena’s sister, Julia.
He promised he would return.
Sophie made him promise twice.
The warehouse was silent when Vincent and Marcus entered with their team.
Dust covered most surfaces.
The building had once stored paper medical files before hospitals digitized their archives.
They found fresh tire marks outside.
Inside, a folding chair sat beneath a hanging light.
Rope on the floor.
Sara had been there.
Marcus touched the chair.
“Still warm?”
“No.”
Vincent noticed a blood smear.
Small.
Not enough to indicate severe injury.
He forced himself not to imagine more.
A speaker clicked somewhere overhead.
Arthur Vale’s voice filled the warehouse.
“Vincent.”
Everyone froze.
Marcus looked upward.
The speaker continued.
“If you’re hearing this, then you found Rebecca’s locker.”
Vincent’s jaw tightened.
Arthur sounded tired.
Not triumphant.
Not threatening.
Almost sad.
“I warned your sister to stop digging.”
Vincent looked toward a camera mounted near the ceiling.
“Arthur!”
Recorded message.
No response.
“She believed the truth would protect people. Your sister always had that weakness.”
Vincent stepped closer to the camera.
“What did you do to her?”
The recording continued.
“But Rebecca misunderstood one thing. I was never the person she needed to fear.”
Vincent stopped.
The recording crackled.
“Neither was your father.”
Marcus looked at him.
Arthur’s voice dropped.
“The man responsible has been beside you almost every day since Rebecca died.”
The speaker shut off.
Silence.
Then gunfire exploded from the far end of the warehouse.
Marcus shoved Vincent behind a concrete pillar.
Security returned fire.
A window shattered.
Footsteps.
An engine outside.
By the time they reached the loading dock, a black SUV was disappearing around the corner.
One man remained on the ground.
Alive.
Their team restrained him.
Marcus removed the attacker’s mask.
Vincent recognized him immediately.
He worked for Rowan House security.
“Name,” Marcus demanded.
The man spat blood onto the concrete.
Vincent stepped closer.
“Who gave you the order?”
The man laughed.
“You still don’t see it.”
Vincent grabbed his jacket.
“Where is Sara?”
The man looked at him.
“Ask the man who hired me.”
“Arthur?”
Another laugh.
“No.”
Vincent tightened his grip.
“Who?”
The attacker leaned forward.
“He sits at your table.”
A phone began ringing inside the man’s pocket.
Marcus removed it.
Unknown number.
Vincent answered.
No voice.
Only breathing.
Then someone whispered two words.
“Come home.”
The call ended.
Marcus looked at Vincent.
“What now?”
Vincent’s phone vibrated.
Rowan House security alert.
Main gate opened.
Authorized vehicle.
Authorized identity.
Vincent stared at the screen.
The person entering his estate had used a biometric clearance code belonging to only three people.
Vincent Rowan.
Marcus Reed.
May you like
And the third man had been dead for five years.
Charles Rowan.
