Chapter 2 - The Photograph My Father Left Behind
My mother was asleep when I reached the memory-care center at two in the morning.
Vincent came with me.
I had told him not to.
He ignored me.
Under any other circumstances, that would have infuriated me.
That night, I was too frightened to argue.
Two Marlowe security vehicles followed us through the dark streets. Marcus sat in the front passenger seat while Vincent and I rode in the back without speaking.
I kept thinking about the white lily.
There were hundreds of flowers Dominic could have chosen.
He chose the one I hated.
Which meant someone had been watching me closely enough to know.
That thought frightened me almost more than the message.
Vincent must have understood because when we reached the facility, he told Marcus, “I want every person who has entered this building in the last seven days identified.”
Marcus nodded.
I turned on Vincent.
“You don’t control this facility.”
“No.”
“Then stop ordering people around.”
He looked at me.
“Would you prefer I ask politely while someone studies your mother’s schedule?”
I opened my mouth.
Then closed it.
“I hate when you make sense.”
“I know.”
“Stop saying you know.”
Something almost like a smile moved through his face.
It vanished quickly.
The facility director met us near the lobby.
Her name was Dr. Naomi Feldman, and she had known me for almost two years.
That night, she looked furious.
“We’re reviewing cameras now,” she said. “One of our side doors was opened with a staff badge belonging to an employee who wasn’t working.”
“Stolen?” Marcus asked.
“She says she lost it yesterday.”
“Convenient,” Vincent muttered.
Dr. Feldman glanced at him, clearly aware of exactly who he was.
Then she looked at me.
“Your mother wasn’t harmed, Claire. A nurse checked her immediately.”
“Did she see anyone?”
“She says she did.”
My heart jumped.
“What did she say?”
Dr. Feldman hesitated.
“That’s where it becomes difficult.”
Everything with my mother had become difficult.
Dementia didn't erase memories in order.
It stole at random.
Some mornings she remembered recipes from 1983 but not what she'd eaten for breakfast.
Sometimes she called me Claire.
Sometimes she called me by her sister's name.
Once she introduced me to a nurse as her mother.
“What did she say?” I repeated.
“She told the nurse that Samuel had come back.”
My throat tightened.
Vincent lowered his gaze.
“Can I see her?”
“Of course.”
Vincent waited outside the room.
I appreciated that.
Mom lay beneath a pale blue blanket.
At seventy-one, she looked smaller than she had when I was a child.
Her hair had gone almost entirely silver.
Her hands rested beside her face.
For a while, I simply sat and watched her breathe.
Then her eyes opened.
“Claire?”
The fact that she knew me felt like a gift.
“Hi, Mom.”
“You're dressed pretty.”
I looked down.
I was still wearing the dark green dress I'd worn to the gala.
My maid uniform had been replaced two years earlier when I became household coordinator, but I had still always thought of myself as staff.
Tonight, Vincent had insisted the staff attend the charity anniversary dinner as guests.
That was how I ended up wearing a dress when Evan proposed.
“Did you have a party?” Mom asked.
“Yes.”
“Was there cake?”
“Yes.”
“Good cake?”
I laughed softly.
“I didn't get to try it.”
“That’s foolish.”
“I know.”
She reached up and touched my cheek.
“You've been crying.”
I hadn't realized it was obvious.
“Something happened.”
Her eyes became worried.
“Your father?”
My breath stopped.
“Mom, did someone come here tonight?”
She looked toward the door.
For a few seconds, confusion passed through her expression.
Then fear.
“He smelled like cigars.”
“Who?”
“The tall one.”
“What tall one?”
She frowned.
“The brother.”
Every hair on my arms rose.
“What brother?”
“Vincent's.”
I stared.
Mom had never spoken Vincent's name to me before.
“How do you know Vincent?”
She blinked.
“Your father knew him.”
My chest tightened.
“Mom, what happened to Dad?”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“He promised.”
“What?”
“He promised he'd come back.”
I squeezed her hand.
“From where?”
“The roses.”
“What roses?”
She shook her head.
“The red book.”
I leaned closer.
“What red book?”
“Under the roses.”
“Where?”
She became agitated.
“I told him not to go.”
“Dad?”
“He said Vincent would fix it.”
My entire body went cold.
“What would Vincent fix?”
Then Mom looked past me.
Her face changed.
“Samuel?”
I turned.
Vincent stood in the doorway.
He must have heard enough to know retreating would make things worse.
Mom stared at him.
For a long moment, nobody spoke.
Then she whispered, “You got old.”
Vincent almost laughed.
Instead his eyes became wet.
“So did you, Eleanor.”
“You said you'd find him.”
There was no anger in her voice.
That was worse.
Vincent stepped inside.
“I tried.”
“No.”
Mom shook her head.
“You stopped.”
My gaze moved toward him.
Vincent's face tightened.
“Eleanor—”
“You stopped because of Evan.”
I stared.
“What does Evan have to do with my father?”
Mom closed her eyes.
“He was just a baby.”
Vincent went pale.
That was the moment I realized there were secrets beneath secrets.
Vincent sat in the chair opposite me.
“Eleanor, do you remember where Samuel hid the ledger?”
Her eyes opened.
For one lucid second, my mother looked entirely like herself.
“You don't know?”
“No.”
Her gaze shifted toward me.
Then back.
“Good.”
She smiled.
Then the clarity vanished.
“Claire needs breakfast.”
I swallowed my frustration.
“Mom, please.”
“You're too thin.”
She closed her eyes.
Within minutes, she was asleep again.
I followed Vincent into the corridor.
“What did she mean about Evan?”
He remained silent.
“Vincent.”
“I don't know.”
“Don't do that.”
“I am telling you the truth.”
“She said you stopped looking for my father because of Evan.”
“I don't know why she believes that.”
“You knew her.”
“Yes.”
“How well?”
“Not well. Samuel brought her to two company events.”
“My mother knew who you were.”
“Yes.”
“And all these years she never told me.”
“She probably wanted to protect you.”
I laughed bitterly.
“I'm getting very tired of people protecting me with ignorance.”
Vincent absorbed that.
“I deserve that.”
“Yes.”
We walked toward a small family lounge.
Marcus remained down the hall on the phone.
Inside the lounge, Vincent closed the door.
“Ask.”
“What?”
“Anything. I won't lie.”
“That's a dangerous promise.”
“Yes.”
I folded my arms.
“Was my father a criminal?”
Vincent considered the question.
“He helped keep financial records for businesses that were sometimes used to conceal money.”
“So yes.”
“Yes.”
“Did he hurt people?”
“Not that I ever knew.”
“Did he steal?”
“From my family?”
“Anyone.”
“No.”
“Why did he work for you?”
“He needed money.”
Of course.
The same thing that had shaped my entire life.
Money.
Vincent continued.
“Your mother's medical problems started earlier than you think.”
I stared at him.
“She had surgery when you were eleven.”
I remembered.
A hospital.
Dad sleeping in chairs.
Bills on the kitchen table.
“He began doing accounting work for my father to pay the debt.”
“And then Dominic stole from you.”
“Not only from me.”
Vincent walked toward the window.
“My father, Lorenzo, had divided several businesses between Dominic and me. Dominic believed he deserved everything because he was older.”
“What businesses?”
“Warehouses. Restaurants. Distribution companies. Gaming clubs.”
“Illegal?”
“Some.”
“How illegal?”
He looked at me.
“I was thirty-four when Samuel disappeared. I was not a good man, Claire.”
My chest tightened.
“Are you a good man now?”
Vincent's mouth curved without humor.
“Depends who answers.”
“I’m asking.”
He held my gaze.
“I have done things I regret.”
“That isn't an answer.”
“No.”
His honesty frightened me less than denial would have.
“What happened between you and Dominic?”
“Samuel discovered Dominic was diverting money into accounts connected to Gideon Vale.”
I knew that name.
Everyone in Cincinnati did.
Gideon Vale had built a national logistics empire and spent years appearing beside governors and sports owners.
There were darker stories too.
“So Dominic betrayed your family.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Power.”
“Money?”
“Dominic never cared about money as much as he cared about being the man who decided who got it.”
I thought about the message left beside my mother.
“Why is he back now?”
“I don't know.”
“You said you wouldn't lie.”
“I’m not.”
Vincent looked irritated by his own inability to answer.
“Dominic hasn't been in Cincinnati in twelve years.”
“Why did he leave?”
Vincent hesitated.
Then:
“Because my wife died.”
I stared.
Evan’s mother.
Alessandra Marlowe had died when Evan was twenty.
A car accident.
Evan rarely discussed it.
“What did Dominic have to do with her death?”
“I never proved he had anything to do with it.”
“But you suspected.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Alessandra had begun asking questions about old company accounts.”
My stomach dropped.
“The same accounts my father found?”
Vincent turned toward me.
“Yes.”
Everything connected.
My father.
Dominic.
The ledger.
Vincent’s wife.
Evan.
“What happened after she died?”
“I told Dominic if I ever found proof he was responsible, there would be no place on earth far enough away.”
The quiet way he said it chilled me.
“So he left.”
“He understood me.”
I almost asked whether Vincent would have killed his own brother.
I didn't.
Some questions become unnecessary when you already know the answer.
“What about the red book?”
Vincent shook his head.
“I’ve heard rumors.”
“What rumors?”
“That Samuel kept a private ledger.”
“Evidence?”
“Yes.”
“Against Dominic?”
“And possibly others.”
“Why didn't my father give it to you?”
“He was afraid.”
“Of you?”
Vincent looked away.
“Maybe.”
That answer hurt.
“Why would my father be afraid of the man he supposedly trusted to fix things?”
“Because Samuel had learned enough about all of us to understand none of us were clean.”
My stomach turned.
“So he disappeared.”
“I don't believe he chose to.”
“Do you think Dominic killed him?”
“Yes.”
My eyes closed.
For seventeen years, I'd hated my father.
Then missed him.
Then hated myself for missing him.
I imagined him starting over with another woman.
Another daughter.
I told myself he was selfish because selfish hurt less than dead.
“Did you tell my mother?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I told her Samuel had disappeared after trouble with Dominic. I told her I couldn't prove more.”
“And then you stopped searching.”
Vincent's expression changed.
“I never completely stopped.”
“Mom thinks you did.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He looked exhausted suddenly.
“After Alessandra died, Evan was twenty. My father was already gone. Dominic was threatening to challenge control of everything. I had a son who had just lost his mother and hundreds of employees who depended on companies that were close to tearing themselves apart.”
“So you chose your family.”
“Yes.”
The answer came without excuse.
“My father became someone you couldn't afford to keep looking for.”
“Yes.”
I hated him in that moment.
Not completely.
That was the worst part.
I hated him while still understanding him.
Vincent stepped closer.
“I failed your family.”
“You helped mine too.”
“That doesn't erase it.”
“No.”
“Claire, I knew who you were when you applied here.”
“I know.”
“I thought keeping you close might allow me to correct part of what I failed to do.”
“Without telling me.”
“Yes.”
“You paid my mother's facility?”
His eyes changed.
I knew.
“Oh my God.”
“Not all of it.”
“How much?”
“Claire—”
“How much?”
“The Marlowe Foundation covers a portion of the dementia-care program.”
“You created that grant?”
“It existed before your mother entered.”
“Did you change it?”
“I expanded it.”
“For me?”
“For twenty-three families.”
I stared.
That was Vincent.
Even his help came disguised as something that preserved my dignity.
It made being furious with him harder.
“I am resigning.”
He looked at me.
“From the house.”
“Claire.”
“If I stay employed by you after tonight, every conversation between us becomes impossible.”
His face tightened.
“You don't need to decide tonight.”
“I decided three years ago. I was just too afraid to admit why.”
His eyes darkened.
“This is not the time to discuss us.”
“There is no us.”
Pain flickered across his face.
“Exactly.”
I looked away.
Then Marcus entered without knocking.
“We found him.”
“Dominic?” Vincent asked.
“His driver.”
Marcus placed a security photograph on the table.
A man in a black coat entering the memory facility.
“He used a stolen badge.”
“Where is he now?”
“Gone.”
“Name?”
“Caleb Voss.”
Vincent cursed quietly.
I knew enough about his world to understand that name meant something.
“Who is he?”
Vincent answered.
“Dominic's oldest loyalist.”
Marcus placed another image beside it.
“This was recorded outside the facility.”
A second man stood near a dark SUV.
Vincent stared.
His face changed completely.
“What?”
I asked.
He picked up the photograph.
For the first time, his hand shook.
Marcus looked at me.
“The second man is Gideon Vale.”
The respectable billionaire.
The man whose money my father had discovered moving through Marlowe companies.
Vincent looked toward the sleeping wing where my mother lay.
“If Gideon is personally involved, they're not here to frighten Claire.”
“What do they want?”
“The ledger.”
I thought about Mom's words.
Red book.
Under the roses.
Vincent seemed to reach the same conclusion.
He turned to Marcus.
“Call the old estate.”
Marcus frowned.
“The greenhouse?”
Vincent looked at me.
“My mother grew roses.”
My pulse accelerated.
“At the old Marlowe house?”
“Yes.”
“Where Samuel used to work?”
“Yes.”
I remembered Mom's fragmented words.
Under the roses.
May you like
For the first time in seventeen years, my father had left me something to follow.
And somewhere beneath the dead gardens of an abandoned Marlowe estate, the truth might still be waiting.
