Chapter 3 - The Dead Man Beneath the Theater
Ethan did not speak for almost thirty seconds.
His father, Richard Carter, had been dead for nineteen years.
Everyone in Chicago knew the story.
A car explosion outside a private club.
Organized crime retaliation.
No arrests.
Ethan had been eighteen.
That death transformed him.
He dropped out of Northwestern for a year.
Inherited partial control of the family business.
By twenty-four, he controlled everything.
The legend of Ethan Carter had been built on the day his father died.
And Victoria Hale was standing in front of us telling him it had been a lie.
“My father died in a car bombing,” Ethan repeated.
Victoria looked terrified.
“I know what they told you.”
“You were seventeen.”
“Eighteen.”
“You weren’t there.”
“No.”
“Then how would you know?”
Victoria looked at me.
“Because my father helped move the body.”
The room became silent.
Ethan’s expression turned frighteningly blank.
Victoria sat down slowly.
“My father worked construction for the Carters in the nineties.”
“Hale Construction?”
“Yes.”
I knew the company.
It had collapsed after Victoria’s father was convicted on federal fraud charges fifteen years ago.
“He was involved in the theater?”
“He built the underground rooms.”
Ethan stepped closer.
“What rooms?”
“The hidden storage spaces beneath the west stage.”
Dad’s notes.
I sat.
Victoria continued.
“Your father used them for records. Cash. Weapons. Meetings.”
“I know that much.”
“He also used them for interrogations.”
Something cold entered the room.
Victoria swallowed.
“On October 14, nineteen years ago, Richard Carter went there to meet three men.”
“Who?”
“My father refused to name them.”
“Then why should I believe this?”
“Because Richard never left alive.”
Ethan’s face became stone.
Victoria’s eyes filled.
“My father and two workers were called after midnight. They were told to move Richard’s body through the old service tunnel and put it into a car.”
Ethan grabbed the back of a chair.
“Who killed him?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who gave the order?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who was there?”
“My father would never tell me.”
Ethan slammed his fist against the table.
Victoria flinched.
I did too.
He looked at me.
Immediately regretted it.
“Sorry.”
I almost laughed at the absurdity.
Twenty-four hours ago, we were discussing divorce.
Now we were sitting with his first love discussing whether his father had been murdered beneath my architectural project.
“Why didn’t your father go to the police?” I asked.
Victoria laughed bitterly.
“Because your husband’s family owned half the police department.”
Ethan did not deny it.
“My father kept one thing,” Victoria continued.
“What?”
“A ledger.”
Ethan’s eyes narrowed.
“He took it from Richard’s coat.”
“Why?”
“Insurance.”
“Where is it?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“He hid it.”
“Convenient.”
“It ruined his life.”
Her voice rose.
“He spent fifteen years terrified someone would find out.”
“Did they?”
“Yes.”
We all froze.
“When?”
“Seven months ago.”
The timing hit me.
When Victoria returned.
“Someone contacted you.”
“Yes.”
“What did they want?”
“The ledger.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why didn’t you tell Ethan?”
Victoria looked at him.
“Because I thought he already knew.”
Ethan stared.
“You thought I knew my father was murdered?”
“I thought you knew what your family had done.”
Something in him broke.
Not visibly.
But I saw it.
For years, Ethan had carried his father’s death like a sacred wound.
Now even grief had become suspicious.
I looked at Victoria.
“Why did you meet my father?”
“He contacted me three weeks ago.”
“How?”
“Email.”
“What did he know?”
“He found architectural evidence of the underground rooms. Then he found my father’s name on an old subcontract.”
“And you told him?”
“Some of it.”
“The photograph shows you arguing.”
“I told him to stop investigating.”
“Why?”
“Because two days earlier I received another threat.”
Same project. Same ending.
“You thought Dad would be killed.”
“Yes.”
“Did you tell him?”
“Yes.”
“And he kept investigating.”
“He said someone had to.”
That sounded exactly like Dad.
My throat tightened.
“What did he find?”
Victoria looked at Ethan.
“A sealed chamber.”
“Where?”
“Behind the west foundation wall.”
Dad’s load reports.
A space missing from later plans.
“What’s inside?”
“I don’t know.”
My phone vibrated.
Maya.
My best friend.
I had forgotten I had promised to call after the funeral.
I declined.
She called again.
Then a text.
CALL ME NOW.
I stepped away.
“What?”
Her voice came fast.
“Claire, where are you?”
“With Ethan.”
“Good.”
That was unusual.
“What happened?”
“Someone broke into your architecture office.”
My stomach dropped.
“What?”
“The police are here.”
“What did they take?”
“Your project files.”
“Which ones?”
“Only Carter Grand.”
I looked at Ethan.
He read my face.
“What?”
I told him.
He called Daniel immediately.
Within fifteen minutes, we were moving again.
Victoria came too.
I did not like that.
I also understood she was part of this.
My office occupied the tenth floor of a renovated warehouse in River North.
By the time we arrived, police had sealed the area.
My design studio looked destroyed.
Drawers open.
Models smashed.
Computers ripped from desks.
But whoever came had ignored expensive equipment.
They wanted paper.
Dad’s work.
A detective approached.
“Mrs. Carter?”
“Yes.”
“We found something.”
He handed me a plastic evidence bag.
Inside was a photograph.
Dad.
Standing beside a black sedan.
The sedan that hit us.
My knees weakened.
Ethan caught my elbow.
I pulled away.
“Where?”
“Pinned to your office door.”
On the back:
HE FOUND THE TRUTH.
SO WILL YOU.
Ethan took the bag.
“What cameras?”
“Disabled.”
“Access logs?”
“Wiped.”
Daniel arrived.
“Ethan.”
He pulled him aside.
I followed anyway.
“What?”
Daniel looked at me.
Then accepted I wasn’t leaving.
“The burned sedan had a fingerprint.”
“Who?”
“Samuel Price.”
Ethan’s expression changed.
I knew that name.
Samuel Price was Carter Holdings’ chief financial officer.
Fifty-nine.
Polished.
Trusted.
He had attended our wedding.
“He drove the car?”
“No proof.”
“Then what?”
“The print was on the inside rear door.”
I stared.
“He was in it.”
“At some point.”
Ethan’s jaw tightened.
“Find him.”
Daniel’s face remained grim.
“We tried.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s missing.”
My stomach turned.
“When?”
“Since Tuesday.”
The night of the crash.
Victoria whispered, “Oh my God.”
Ethan looked at her.
“You know something.”
Victoria’s face changed.
“Samuel Price knew my father.”
“How?”
“He handled payments for Hale Construction.”
“Why didn’t you say that?”
“I didn’t know he was still with you.”
Ethan laughed without humor.
“He’s managed my finances for twelve years.”
Victoria covered her mouth.
Everything pointed inward.
Not a rival family.
Not random violence.
Someone inside Carter Holdings.
Someone old enough to know the truth about Richard Carter.
That evening, Ethan moved me into a secure penthouse owned through a trust.
I did not argue this time.
Not because I trusted him.
Because Dad’s killers had already reached my office.
Maya joined me.
She hugged me the second she arrived.
“You look terrible.”
“Thank you.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do.”
She looked at Ethan.
“You.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“You hurt her, I will become extremely creative.”
“I’ve been threatened by professionals.”
“None of them were women who know where Claire keeps your embarrassing college photographs.”
Ethan almost smiled.
Maya turned to me.
“I brought clothes.”
“Thank you.”
“And wine.”
“I may need that.”
After midnight, Ethan remained in the living room reviewing files.
I found him standing by the window.
“You’re not sleeping?”
“No.”
“You should.”
“So should you.”
I looked outside.
Chicago lights.
The city Ethan controlled.
Or thought he did.
“Did you love Victoria?”
He turned slowly.
“Then?”
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
The honesty hurt less than denial.
“Do you love her now?”
“No.”
I watched him.
“You hesitated.”
“Because the answer is complicated.”
“That generally means yes.”
“No.”
He stepped closer.
“I care what happens to her.”
“Why?”
“Because she almost died when we were twenty.”
I knew the story vaguely.
Victoria had been injured in a stage collapse during a university performance.
Multiple surgeries.
Career nearly ended.
She left the country.
“You blamed yourself.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I financed the renovation.”
I stared.
“The stage that collapsed?”
“Yes.”
“The contractor cut corners.”
“I recommended him.”
“That doesn’t make it your fault.”
“I was twenty.”
“So?”
“I thought money could fix everything.”
“And Victoria?”
“She blamed me at first.”
“Then?”
“She left.”
“You never got closure.”
“No.”
I looked away.
“That sounds romantic.”
“It wasn’t.”
“It looks romantic.”
“I know.”
“You went to New York.”
“Yes.”
“Because she was scared.”
“Yes.”
“And when I needed you, I didn’t call.”
“Yes.”
“You understand why I can’t separate those things.”
He looked down.
“Yes.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
That surprised me.
He continued.
“If you leave me because of what I did, I’ll have earned it.”
My eyes burned.
“I don’t want regret, Ethan.”
“I know.”
“I wanted a husband.”
“I know.”
“Not after tragedy.”
His voice cracked.
“I know.”
Silence.
Then he pulled something from his pocket.
My wedding ring.
I stared.
“How did you get that?”
“The hospital returned your belongings to Daniel.”
“I didn’t ask him to.”
“No.”
“Give it back.”
He placed it in my palm.
“I wasn’t going to keep it.”
I closed my fingers.
“If we divorce, I’m keeping it.”
“Good.”
“Why?”
“Because it was yours.”
“No argument?”
“No.”
“You’re becoming unsettling.”
He almost smiled.
Then his phone rang.
Daniel.
Ethan listened.
His face changed.
“What building?”
He turned toward me.
“No. Stay there.”
He ended the call.
“What?”
“Samuel Price used a corporate access card ten minutes ago.”
“Where?”
Ethan looked toward the dark skyline.
“The Carter Grand.”
My pulse jumped.
“He went back.”
“Yes.”
“To the room.”
Ethan reached for his coat.
“I’m going.”
“So am I.”
“No.”
I laughed.
“I designed half the building. You need me.”
“I have blueprints.”
“I know the old service routes better than your security team.”
“Claire.”
“And Dad died for this.”
That ended it.
Ethan stared at me.
Then nodded once.
“Stay beside me.”
“I’m not promising that.”
“Of course not.”
Thirty minutes later, we entered the theater through the loading dock.
No audience.
No workers.
Only emergency lights.
The restored lobby I had designed glowed dimly.
Beautiful.
Haunted.
Victoria remained under guard elsewhere.
Daniel led us backstage.
The west foundation wall stood behind temporary construction barriers.
Dad had marked a section in red.
I touched the concrete.
“There.”
A seam.
Nearly invisible.
Ethan’s men removed a panel.
Behind it was old brick.
Then metal.
A door.
No handle.
Daniel found the release mechanism.
The door opened.
Cold air came from darkness.
We entered.
The hidden room smelled of dust and rust.
Shelves.
Old boxes.
A broken desk.
Bloodstains that had darkened almost black over decades.
Ethan saw them.
His face went pale.
In the center lay a single chair.
On it, a fresh envelope.
ETHAN CARTER.
He opened it.
Inside was a photograph of Richard Carter.
Alive.
Seated in that same chair.
Two men stood behind him.
One was Samuel Price.
The other—
Ethan stopped breathing.
I looked.
And recognized him immediately.
Ethan’s uncle.
Michael Carter.
The man who had raised Ethan after his father’s death.
The man Ethan trusted more than anyone alive.
On the back were four words.
ASK WHO ORDERED IT.
A sound came from behind us.
Metal scraping.
Daniel turned.
Gunfire exploded.
The lights died.
Someone grabbed me from behind.
May you like
And in the dark, a man whispered into my ear:
“Your father should have listened.”
