Chapter 2 - The Job I Thought Would Save Me Was the Trap They Needed Me to Enter
Monday morning, I arrived at Northbridge twenty minutes early.
I had barely stepped onto the executive floor when an assistant approached me.
“Mr. Whitmore wants to see you.”
My stomach twisted.
“Now?”
“He said immediately.”
The doors to Jack’s office were guarded.
I knocked.
“Come in.”
He was standing beside the windows.
No tie today.
I almost laughed.
He noticed.
“You’re staring.”
“I’m checking whether you learned anything.”
He looked down at his navy tie.
“Better?”
“Much.”
He gestured toward the chair.
“Sit.”
I did.
He remained standing.
“Someone visited your mother.”
I stiffened.
“How do you know?”
“I have people watching the building.”
I stared.
“Because of me?”
“Because of Northbridge.”
“That doesn't answer my question.”
“No.”
He sat.
“Someone is looking into you.”
“Why?”
“That is what I’m trying to find out.”
I crossed my arms.
“You hired me.”
“Yes.”
“Knowing someone was interested in me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He was silent.
Then he slid a file across the desk.
I opened it.
Inside were records of my employment history.
Addresses.
Bank transfers.
School records.
My stomach dropped.
“You investigated me.”
“I investigate everyone.”
“After the sandwich?”
His expression almost softened.
“Before the sandwich.”
That made me sit straighter.
“You already knew who I was?”
“Yes.”
“Then why did you sit beside me pretending you were nervous?”
“Because I was nervous.”
I laughed.
“You?”
“You were the first person to speak to me like I was ordinary in a very long time.”
That answer caught me off guard.
He continued.
“I wanted to know if it was genuine.”
“What was?”
“The way you looked at me.”
I didn't know what to say.
Jack leaned forward.
“There is something unusual about your family history.”
“My family?”
“Yes.”
He opened another file.
My father.
Daniel Carter.
I hadn't seen his name in years.
“He died when you were twelve.”
“Yes.”
“Car accident.”
“Yes.”
“Except the accident report was altered.”
My skin prickled.
“What?”
“Your father worked for Whitmore Logistics.”
I stared.
“My father?”
“He was an accountant.”
“He drove trucks.”
“That's what everyone believed.”
I stood.
“This is ridiculous.”
Jack didn't move.
“He handled financial records connected to several companies.”
“You're telling me my father worked for the mafia?”
“I’m telling you he worked for me.”
I stared.
“He knew about illegal transfers?”
“He knew enough to become dangerous.”
My throat tightened.
“You think he was murdered?”
“I think someone wanted him dead.”
My chair scraped backward.
“You hired me because of my father.”
“No.”
He said it immediately.
“I hired you because you were good.”
“Then why tell me this?”
“Because the people watching you know your connection to me now.”
I looked at him.
“And if I quit?”
“I'll protect you.”
“Why?”
His eyes held mine.
“Because I won't let anyone punish you for something you never chose.”
I left his office angry.
But not at him.
At my father.
At the world.
At the possibility that my entire childhood had been built around a lie.
That evening, I found a package outside my apartment.
Inside was an old photograph.
My father stood beside another man.
Jack.
Twenty years younger.
I stared at it.
On the back was a single sentence.
ASK HIM WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR FATHER.
The next morning, I brought it to Jack.
He went completely still.
“Where did you get this?”
“My door.”
His face hardened.
“Who gave it to you?”
“I don't know.”
He took the photograph.
“This was taken two weeks before your father's death.”
“Tell me everything.”
“I was nineteen.”
“Nineteen?”
“Yes.”
“You knew my father?”
“He worked for my father.”
“And then?”
“He found discrepancies in the books.”
“Illegal money?”
“Yes.”
“What did he do?”
“He tried to report it.”
My chest tightened.
“To whom?”
“Me.”
I whispered:
“You were nineteen.”
“I was.”
“And you couldn't protect him?”
Jack looked away.
“I tried.”
“What happened?”
“He trusted the wrong person.”
“Who?”
Jack's jaw tightened.
“My uncle.”
Victor Whitmore.
The former head of the family.
The man believed to have died peacefully fifteen years earlier.
“Your uncle killed my father?”
“We never proved it.”
“But you believe it.”
“Yes.”
I looked at the photograph.
“What was my father going to expose?”
Jack opened a locked drawer.
Inside was an old notebook.
He handed it to me.
My father's handwriting filled the pages.
Company names.
Numbers.
Dates.
And a phrase repeated again and again.
NORTHBRIDGE PROJECT BLACK.
“What is Project Black?”
Jack said nothing.
“Jack.”
He sighed.
“A hidden fund.”
“For what?”
“Buying influence.”
“Politicians?”
“Among others.”
I felt sick.
Then I noticed something.
A list of names.
At the bottom was my father's.
Crossed out.
Beside it was another name.
Jack Whitmore.
Also crossed out.
“What does this mean?”
Jack's face changed.
“Nothing good.”
Before I could ask more, the lights went out.
The office plunged into darkness.
A gunshot cracked somewhere downstairs.
Jack stood instantly.
“Get behind me.”
Security flooded the hallway.
A second shot.
Glass shattered.
I ducked.
Jack grabbed my hand.
His grip was firm but careful.
“Stay close.”
We entered a private elevator.
It descended rapidly.
I realized I was trembling.
Jack noticed.
“You're safe.”
“How can you know that?”
“Because they were aiming at me.”
“Why?”
“They want something.”
“What?”
He looked at me.
“You.”
My heart stopped.
“Why?”
“Because your father hid something before he died.”
“What?”
“A key.”
“To what?”
Jack didn't answer.
The elevator doors opened underground.
A secure parking garage waited below.
Black SUVs surrounded us.
As Jack guided me toward one, I saw a man standing beside the far wall.
He wasn't holding a weapon.
He was smiling.
Jack stopped dead.
“Who is that?”
Jack's face went pale.
“Someone who should be dead.”
The man lifted his hand.
“Hello, Jack.”
Jack moved me behind him.
The man smiled wider.
“Daniel Carter's daughter.”
My blood froze.
May you like
Then he said:
“Your father left something for you.”
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