Chapter 8 - What Their Mother Knew
Owen had kept the letter for eleven months.
Penelope wanted to be furious.
She was.
She also understood why he had waited.
They sat together in his hospital room the next afternoon.
His infection was improving.
His trial enrollment had been restored.
Specialists were already planning the next stage of treatment.
For the first time in months, there was genuine hope.
Yet an unopened envelope lay between them.
Their mother’s handwriting covered the front.
For Penny and Owen. Together.
Penelope touched the letters.
“She wrote this?”
Owen nodded.
“I found it in the storage unit.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because you were already drowning.”
“That was not your decision.”
“I know.”
She looked at him.
Apparently everybody in her life had decided protecting her meant deciding things for her.
Owen smiled weakly.
“You sound like someone else.”
“Don’t.”
“Batman?”
“Definitely don’t.”
His smile faded.
“I thought I could find answers first.”
“So you borrowed money from criminals.”
“Yes.”
“And stole confidential information from my employer.”
“Yes.”
“And gambled.”
He winced.
“Yes.”
Penelope folded her arms.
“When you survive this, I’m going to kill you.”
“Seems medically inefficient.”
She laughed despite herself.
Then she opened the letter.
Their mother’s words were simple.
Margaret Gallagher explained that Patrick Gallagher, their father, had discovered financial corruption at the construction company where he worked.
He planned to report it.
Before he could, he received threats.
He told Margaret little because he believed ignorance would protect her.
Then he died.
Doctors ruled it a heart attack.
Margaret never believed them.
Years later, during her own cancer treatment, a former employee contacted her.
He claimed Patrick had been poisoned with a drug capable of triggering cardiac arrest in someone with an undiagnosed rhythm abnormality.
Margaret gathered records.
She intended to take them to authorities.
Then her own health deteriorated.
She became afraid.
Not for herself.
For Penelope and Owen.
So she hid everything.
At the end of the letter, she wrote:
If you are reading this, I failed to tell you while I was alive. I am sorry. I wanted you to have ordinary lives more than I wanted revenge.
Penelope stopped reading.
Owen looked at her.
“There’s another page.”
She turned it.
One name appeared repeatedly.
Not Adrian Vale.
Samuel Barrington.
Penelope frowned.
“Barrington?”
Owen nodded.
“The father of Mitchell Barrington.”
The man from the restaurant.
Caroline’s husband.
Penelope felt cold.
The humiliation at Bellavista suddenly connected to something much older.
Their father.
The construction company.
Vale.
Halcyon.
“This wasn’t random.”
“No.”
Owen looked toward the window.
“Vale was working for Barrington back then.”
“Doing what?”
“Collections. Pressure. Whatever needed doing.”
Penelope hated the phrase.
“What happened to Samuel?”
“Died four years ago.”
“And Mitchell inherited everything.”
“Yes.”
She remembered Mitchell’s face when Lorenzo entered the restaurant.
Not simple fear.
Recognition.
Maybe guilt.
Maybe knowledge.
Penelope stood.
“I need to talk to the FBI.”
Owen nodded.
“And Lorenzo.”
Her expression changed.
Owen noticed.
“You haven’t heard from him?”
“No.”
It had been eighteen hours.
Lorenzo’s attorneys refused to discuss details.
Marco told her only that he was cooperating.
Moretti Holdings released a bland statement about an ongoing federal investigation.
News channels were already feeding on the story.
CHICAGO POWER BROKER QUESTIONED IN CORRUPTION PROBE.
MORETTI RECORDS EXPOSE CITY CONTRACT SCANDAL.
WHO IS PENELOPE GALLAGHER?
That final headline appeared because someone had filmed the restaurant confrontation.
The video spread everywhere.
Lorenzo holding the ring.
Penelope covering her mouth.
His words.
Future wife.
She had become famous overnight for a proposal that technically never happened.
Owen found this hilarious.
Penelope did not.
She left the hospital and met with federal investigators.
For five hours, she answered questions.
About Owen.
The file.
Cross.
Bellavista.
Mitchell Barrington.
Her parents.
Then an agent showed her a document.
A payment dated nine years earlier.
Three days before Patrick Gallagher died.
Recipient initials: A.V.
Authorization: S.B.
Penelope stared.
“Adrian Vale.”
“Yes.”
“Samuel Barrington.”
“Yes.”
“What was the payment for?”
The agent did not answer.
They did not have proof.
Not yet.
But there was another document.
An email recovered from an old server.
Take care of the Gallagher issue before Monday.
Penelope stopped reading.
Her hands shook.
“Did Vale kill my father?”
“We’re investigating.”
“That means you think he did.”
“It means we’re investigating.”
She hated the phrase.
When she left the federal building, reporters waited.
Marco appeared beside her.
“How did you know where I was?”
“Lorenzo asked me to watch you.”
She stopped.
“He’s still giving orders?”
“Through attorneys.”
“Of course he is.”
Marco opened the car door.
“Where is he?”
“At home.”
She stared.
“He was released?”
“This afternoon.”
“Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
“He said you were with your brother.”
She closed her eyes.
“Again.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
She got into the car.
Twenty minutes later, she entered Lorenzo’s penthouse.
He stood near the windows.
No jacket.
No tie.
He looked tired.
Very tired.
For once, not invincible.
He turned when she entered.
“Penelope.”
She walked directly toward him.
Then slapped him.
Not hard.
Enough.
Marco quietly left the room.
Lorenzo touched his cheek.
“I probably deserved that.”
“You absolutely did.”
“For which part?”
“That question proves the problem.”
His mouth almost curved.
She glared.
“Don’t smile.”
“I’m trying not to.”
“You got released hours ago.”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t call.”
“You were with Owen.”
“You don’t decide what information I can handle.”
“You’re right.”
She stopped.
He had agreed too quickly.
“That’s irritating.”
“What?”
“You’re supposed to argue.”
“I’m learning.”
She stared at him.
Then all the anger broke.
She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him.
Lorenzo froze.
For one second, he did not move.
Then his arms closed around her.
Penelope pressed her face against his chest.
“You idiot.”
“Yes.”
“You could go to prison.”
“Yes.”
“You could lose your company.”
“Parts of it.”
“That is not better.”
“No.”
She pulled back.
“Why did you pay for Owen’s treatment?”
“I didn’t.”
“Lorenzo.”
“The Moretti Family Medical Foundation did.”
“That foundation did not exist last week.”
“It does now.”
She stared.
“You created a charity overnight?”
“Yes.”
“To avoid me refusing your money?”
“It seemed efficient.”
Penelope laughed.
Then cried.
Then became angry that she was crying.
Lorenzo wiped one tear with his thumb.
“Don’t.”
“What?”
“Be nice to me right now.”
His expression softened.
“Why?”
“Because I’m trying to remain furious.”
“I see.”
She looked at him.
“The ring.”
He glanced toward her bag.
“You still have it?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“That is all?”
“What would you like me to say?”
“I don’t know.”
He stepped closer.
“I do.”
Her heart accelerated.
But before he could continue, Marco returned.
His expression erased the moment.
“What?”
“We have a problem.”
Lorenzo turned.
“What kind?”
“Mitchell Barrington disappeared.”
Penelope went cold.
“When?”
“Two hours ago.”
“Where?”
“Last seen leaving his office.”
Lorenzo’s phone buzzed.
Then Penelope’s.
Then Marco’s.
All three received the same news alert.
CHICAGO DEVELOPER MITCHELL BARRINGTON FOUND DEAD.
Penelope stared.
But Lorenzo was reading something else.
A message beneath the alert.
He looked up.
“What?”
Penelope stepped toward him.
Lorenzo turned the screen.
May you like
One sentence.
YOUR FATHER WASN’T THE LAST GALLAGHER ON THE LIST.
