Chapter 4 - The Twenty-Three Percent My Mother Left Me
Gerald Pike had disappeared twelve minutes before immigration should have flagged his passport.
That was the first sign that he had prepared for this.
The second was the dead body found in his apartment.
Not Gerald.
His assistant.
The police called it suspicious.
Dominic called it a warning.
We moved quickly.
My father's legal team retrieved the trust documents.
I sat in a conference room surrounded by lawyers who had spent years speaking around my existence.
One of them, Mr. Calder, placed a folder in front of me.
“Your mother created the trust eight months before her death.”
I opened it.
Twenty-three percent of Whitmore Freight & Marine.
My name as beneficiary.
My signature required for transfer.
Restrictions protecting the shares from marital claims.
My mother had thought of everything.
“Why didn't she tell me?”
Calder looked uncomfortable.
“Your father instructed the trust administrator not to disclose it until you turned thirty-five.”
I looked at my father.
“Why?”
He didn't answer.
Dominic did.
“Because someone would have found out.”
My father looked at him.
“You don't know that.”
“I do.”
Dominic slid a document across the table.
“Because the trust administrator received a suspicious inquiry six years ago.”
I read it.
Someone had requested information about the beneficiary.
The name was hidden.
But the email domain was familiar.
Mercer Holdings.
I looked at Dominic.
“Who are the Mercers?”
His expression darkened.
“A private investment family.”
“Connected to my father?”
“Connected to Gerald Pike.”
Everything was becoming one giant knot.
The money.
The shell companies.
My mother's ledger.
My father's secrecy.
My trust.
And now a family I had never heard of.
That night, I went back to the storage room.
Not because I had to.
Because I needed to remember the beginning.
My old desk remained there.
The lamp.
The filing cabinet.
The same gray wall.
I sat down.
For nine years, I had thought this room was proof that I had failed.
Now I realized it was where I had built the skills everyone else underestimated.
My phone rang.
Dominic.
“Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“What?”
“You're not sleeping there tonight.”
I smiled faintly.
“Bossy.”
“I've been called worse.”
He arrived twenty minutes later.
He stood in the doorway.
“Why are you still here?”
“Because this room kept the company running.”
He looked around.
“You saved your father's business from a closet.”
“Storage room.”
“Same principle.”
I laughed.
Then he became serious.
“I found something.”
He gave me a photograph.
My mother and a man I didn't recognize.
They were standing near a shipping container.
Behind them was one of our warehouses.
“Who is he?”
“Adrian Mercer.”
“The Mercer family.”
“Yes.”
“What was my mother doing with him?”
“I don't know.”
I turned the photograph over.
A date.
Three days before she died.
My breath caught.
“That can't be.”
Dominic nodded.
“She met him shortly before her death.”
“Why?”
“There is one more problem.”
“What?”
“Adrian Mercer is dead.”
“When?”
“Fourteen years ago.”
I looked at him.
“Then who took the photograph?”
He didn't answer.
We drove to one of Whitmore's older warehouses.
The photograph showed the exact location.
A steel door stood beneath a faded number.
Warehouse 17.
My mother had written one word across the photo.
FIRE.
Dominic looked at me.
“Stay behind me.”
“You know I hate when you say that.”
“Yes.”
We entered.
The warehouse had been decommissioned years earlier.
But someone had used the back office recently.
A chair was warm.
A cup of coffee still had steam.
Dominic drew his weapon.
“Someone was here.”
I spotted a file on the desk.
My mother's handwriting again.
I opened it.
Inside was a list of names.
Gerald Pike.
Adrian Mercer.
Charles Whitmore.
And Dominic Vale.
I looked at Dominic.
“You're on the list.”
He looked genuinely surprised.
“Your mother was investigating me?”
“Apparently.”
He took the file.
A note was attached.
I don't know if Dominic is guilty. I know he is dangerous. If Claire ever meets him, she must choose evidence over fear.
Dominic read it.
“She was smart.”
“She was terrified of you.”
“She had reason.”
I studied him.
“Are you dangerous?”
“Yes.”
He didn't pretend otherwise.
“To me?”
His eyes met mine.
“Never.”
The simplicity of the answer hit me harder than any declaration could have.
We searched the warehouse.
Behind a loose brick, we found a small metal box.
Inside was a flash drive.
I connected it to a secure laptop.
A video loaded.
My mother appeared on screen.
She looked thinner than I remembered.
Tired.
But determined.
“Claire,” she said.
I stopped breathing.
“If you are watching this, it means someone has finally uncovered what your father and I tried to bury.”
I cried instantly.
My mother continued.
“Your father did not steal from the company.”
I looked at Dominic.
“He moved money because someone inside Whitmore Freight was preparing to destroy it.”
She named the person.
Not Gerald.
Not Charles.
Not even Rebecca.
A man named Samuel Royce.
The former chairman.
“He built the shell-company network,” my mother said.
“And he isn't working alone.”
The screen froze.
A corrupted section.
Dominic restarted the file.
Nothing.
The rest was missing.
I slammed my hand on the desk.
“No.”
Dominic put his hand on my shoulder.
“We'll recover it.”
“Who is Samuel Royce?”
“Dead.”
“How?”
“Heart attack.”
“When?”
“Sixteen years ago.”
I laughed bitterly.
“Everyone connected to my mother is either dead or pretending to be.”
Dominic didn't smile.
Then the flash drive displayed a final file.
A bank statement.
The account holder was anonymous.
But the transfer recipient was clear.
Mercer Holdings.
One payment every month.
For sixteen years.
Beginning two months after my mother's death.
I stared.
“Someone has been paying the Mercers for sixteen years.”
Dominic nodded.
“For what?”
A voice came from the doorway.
“For silence.”
We turned.
My father stood there.
He looked older than he had that morning.
“Dad?”
He entered slowly.
“There is something you need to know.”
Dominic stepped toward him.
“You knew about the Mercer payments.”
“Yes.”
“Why hide them?”
“Because they were supposed to stop.”
“Stop what?”
My father looked at me.
“Someone has been waiting for you to turn thirty.”
I frowned.
“Why thirty?”
“Because that's when the trust becomes fully yours.”
The room went silent.
My father continued.
“And tonight is the first day they know you have access.”
“Who?”
He whispered:
“Rebecca.”
I turned.
My stepmother had followed him.
Her face was pale.
Dominic reached for his weapon.
Rebecca held up both hands.
“I didn't kill Anne.”
I stared.
“Then what did you do?”
She cried.
“I helped hide the truth.”
“Which truth?”
She looked at me.
“Your mother didn't die believing the company was lost.”
I swallowed.
“She died believing someone she trusted had betrayed her.”
“Who?”
Rebecca looked at Dominic.
Then me.
“Charles.”
May you like
My father closed his eyes.
And I realized the worst betrayal might not have been the one I thought.
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