Chapter 3 - The Son Who Thought He Knew His Father
Evan was waiting in the mansion kitchen when Vincent and I returned shortly before dawn.
The gala had ended hours earlier.
Crystal glasses still covered silver trays.
A half-eaten cake stood near the pantry.
Someone had removed the flowers from the ballroom, although one white arrangement remained on the kitchen island.
Evan sat beside it.
He had bandaged his hand.
His tie was gone.
His tuxedo shirt was open at the throat.
He looked as if he'd aged overnight.
When Vincent entered, Evan stood.
“Where were you?”
“My mother's facility,” I answered before Vincent could.
Evan's anger vanished.
“What happened?”
“Someone broke into her room.”
He looked horrified.
“Was she hurt?”
“No.”
“Claire—”
“Dominic's man left a message.”
Vincent stepped between us emotionally if not physically.
“You need sleep.”
Evan laughed.
“You're kidding.”
“No.”
“My girlfriend rejected me for my father, then I discovered the reason you hired her involves a man who disappeared seventeen years ago, and now Uncle Dominic is threatening her mother.”
His voice rose.
“And you want me to sleep?”
“You are exhausted.”
“So are you.”
“I make better decisions exhausted.”
“That sentence is everything wrong with you.”
Vincent's jaw tightened.
I understood why people feared the Marlowes.
What frightened me was how similar father and son were when they were hurt.
Both became quieter first.
Sharper.
Neither knew how to say, You scared me.
Instead they said, You were careless.
Neither knew how to ask, Do you still love me?
They asked, What were you thinking?
I had been caught between them long enough.
“Stop.”
Both men looked at me.
“I am not doing this.”
Evan frowned.
“Doing what?”
“Being the object the two of you use to fight about everything you've never said to each other.”
Silence.
“You think tonight started because I rejected you.”
I looked at Evan.
“It didn't.”
Then at Vincent.
“And this didn't start because he had feelings for me.”
I drew a breath.
“You two have been angry at each other for years.”
Evan looked away.
Vincent said nothing.
“Am I wrong?”
Evan poured himself water.
“No.”
Vincent's gaze remained on his son.
“When did it start?” I asked.
Neither answered.
I laughed tiredly.
“Great. Another family secret.”
Evan looked at me.
“After Mom died.”
Vincent's face tightened.
“Evan.”
“No, she wants the truth.”
He drank.
“I wanted Dad to find out what happened.”
“What happened was an accident,” Vincent said.
“You never believed that.”
“I didn't have proof otherwise.”
“So you did nothing.”
Vincent’s voice hardened.
“That is not what happened.”
“It's what it looked like.”
Evan turned toward me.
“Dad sent me to London six weeks after Mom's funeral.”
“To school?”
“To get me away.”
Vincent's expression changed.
“I sent you away because someone fired at your car.”
I stared.
Evan froze.
“What?”
Vincent exhaled slowly.
“You were not supposed to know.”
Evan laughed once.
“Of course.”
“It happened outside your apartment.”
“When?”
“Four days before I sent you to London.”
“You told me the windshield cracked because someone threw a bottle.”
“I lied.”
Evan stared at him.
“Why?”
“Because you had just buried your mother.”
“So you decided to take away my home too?”
“I decided I'd rather have a furious son alive in England than a cooperative son dead in Cincinnati.”
The kitchen became silent.
Evan turned away.
I understood suddenly that Vincent's greatest flaw wasn't lack of love.
It was believing love justified unilateral decisions.
He had done it to Evan.
To me.
To Mom.
Maybe even to Alessandra.
“You should have told him,” I said.
Vincent looked at me.
“I know.”
Evan laughed bitterly.
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
Something in Vincent's answer silenced him.
Perhaps because there was no defense attached.
Evan walked toward the windows.
Dawn was beginning to lighten the sky.
“Did Mom know about Uncle Dominic?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“More than I wanted.”
“How much?”
Vincent ran one hand over his face.
“Alessandra found documents linked to old transfers Samuel had identified.”
“And she told you?”
“Eventually.”
“Eventually?”
“She investigated first.”
A faint, painful smile appeared.
“Your mother did not enjoy being told what she was allowed to know.”
For the first time all night, Evan almost smiled.
“That sounds like her.”
“Yes.”
“What did she find?”
“Payments connected to Gideon Vale.”
“The logistics guy?”
Vincent nodded.
“Gideon was building his legitimate empire. Dominic was helping him use Marlowe companies to move money and acquire properties quietly.”
“Why?”
“Because Gideon promised him backing to take control from me.”
Evan turned around.
“You and Uncle Dominic almost went to war.”
“We did.”
“And Mom got caught between you.”
Vincent's expression closed.
“I don't know.”
“You think he killed her.”
“I think her accident happened five days after she told Dominic she had copied records.”
Evan went pale.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because I had no proof.”
“That excuse is getting old.”
“It kept you alive.”
Evan stared at him.
“You don't know that.”
“No.”
Vincent's voice broke slightly.
“But I know your mother died.”
For the first time, father and son had nothing left to throw.
Evan sat down.
He looked at his bandaged hand.
Then at me.
“The photograph.”
“What about it?”
“I found it because I was looking for Mom's records.”
Vincent's head lifted.
“What records?”
“I've been investigating her death for eight months.”
Vincent's face hardened.
“You what?”
“Here we go.”
“Evan.”
“I found an old insurance report that didn't match the story we were told.”
“What didn't match?”
“The brakes.”
Vincent stepped forward.
“What about them?”
“The official accident report said brake failure wasn't suspected.”
“Yes.”
“But Mom's insurance company ordered a private inspection.”
Evan reached into his jacket and removed his phone.
“The mechanic noted irregular damage near the rear brake line.”
Vincent went still.
“Why have I never seen this?”
“Because the report was never included in the final file.”
“Who ordered it removed?”
“I don't know.”
Vincent took the phone.
His expression became terrifyingly calm.
“I need this.”
“I already sent you a copy.”
“When?”
“Ten minutes ago.”
Vincent looked at him.
A complicated emotion passed between them.
Trust, perhaps.
Or the first tiny attempt at it.
Evan looked at me.
“I didn't propose because I thought our relationship was perfect.”
My chest tightened.
“Evan.”
“I'm not trying to make you feel guilty.”
He looked exhausted.
“I proposed because everything else felt unstable.”
“What do you mean?”
“My mother's death. Dad. The business. Uncle Dominic suddenly showing up in reports again.”
He gave a broken laugh.
“You were the one thing in my life that felt simple.”
I swallowed.
“I wasn't.”
“I know.”
He looked at his injured hand.
“I should've known.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
His gaze moved toward Vincent, then back.
“I saw the way you looked at him.”
My heart stopped.
“You knew?”
“Not knew.”
“When?”
“Months ago.”
“Why didn't you say anything?”
“Because I thought if I loved you enough, you'd eventually look at me that way.”
His honesty hurt worse than anger.
“Evan, I did love things about us.”
“I know.”
“I didn't use you.”
“I know that now too.”
Then he smiled sadly.
“You're terrible at using people. That's probably why you never fit in here.”
Vincent made a low sound that might have been disagreement.
Evan glanced at him.
“She's resigning, isn't she?”
Vincent's face changed.
“How do you know?”
“Because she's Claire.”
I folded my arms.
“I told him at the care facility.”
Evan nodded.
“Good.”
Vincent looked at his son.
“That sounded enthusiastic.”
“It wasn't about you.”
“Everything tonight appears to be about me.”
Evan almost laughed.
Then he became serious.
“You can't have her while she's employed by you.”
Vincent's eyes narrowed.
“You do not get to decide—”
“I'm agreeing with her.”
That stopped him.
Evan looked at me.
“If anything ever happens between you two, I don't want the rest of my life spent wondering whether she was trapped because you controlled her paycheck and her mother's care.”
My throat tightened.
Vincent stared at him.
Then nodded.
“You're right.”
Evan blinked.
“I didn't expect that.”
“Enjoy it.”
The old rhythm between them surfaced briefly.
It made me hopeful.
Then Marcus entered.
“Cars are ready.”
Vincent looked at the clock.
“We leave in twenty minutes.”
Evan stood.
“For the old estate?”
Vincent frowned.
“You're staying here.”
“No.”
“Evan.”
“No.”
“This is not a family outing.”
“I've been investigating Mom for eight months.”
“And someone may have killed her because she investigated.”
“Exactly.”
“That is not the argument you think it is.”
I interrupted.
“I'm going.”
Both men said, “No.”
I stared at them.
Evan began laughing.
Vincent looked irritated.
“I’m going,” I repeated.
“This involves my father and my mother.”
Vincent rubbed his temple.
“Fine.”
Evan pointed at me.
“How did she get a fine?”
“Because she will leave without me if I say no.”
I smiled sweetly.
“See? He knows me.”
Evan groaned.
“Please don't flirt while I'm processing emotional trauma.”
I actually laughed.
Then immediately felt guilty.
Evan noticed.
“Don't.”
“What?”
“Stop apologizing every time you're happy for four seconds.”
That was when I realized Evan might survive me.
Maybe not today.
Maybe not soon.
But he would.
Twenty minutes later, we drove toward the abandoned Marlowe estate north of the city.
The house had been empty for years.
Lorenzo Marlowe had died there.
Vincent refused to live in it afterward.
The property stretched across forty acres behind old stone walls.
Winter had stripped the gardens bare.
The greenhouse stood behind the house, its glass panels dusty and several panes broken.
My mother had said under the roses.
Vincent led us inside.
Rows of dead stems filled raised beds.
“This was my mother's greenhouse,” he said.
“Which roses?” I asked.
“Hundreds.”
“Helpful.”
Evan moved toward the back.
“Mom loved these.”
Vincent nodded.
“She used to bring you here.”
I looked around.
“Did my father?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“He met with me here twice because he didn't trust my office.”
Smart man.
We searched for nearly an hour.
Nothing.
Then I remembered Mom's exact words.
The red book.
Under the roses.
Not under roses.
The roses.
“Vincent.”
He looked at me.
“Did your mother have a favorite variety?”
“Yes.”
“What color?”
He stared toward the far corner.
“Red.”
We moved there.
Most labels had faded.
One small brass marker remained.
SCARLET EMPRESS.
Evan crouched.
“The soil looks newer.”
Vincent frowned.
“This greenhouse hasn't been maintained in fifteen years.”
Marcus brought a tool from the grounds vehicle.
We removed several inches of hardened soil.
Then the metal struck something.
A box.
My pulse exploded.
It was small.
Rusty.
Wrapped in rotting plastic.
Vincent lifted it onto a stone table.
Inside lay a red leather ledger.
My father's handwriting covered the first page.
I recognized it from old birthday cards.
SAMUEL ROWAN — PRIVATE RECORD.
My hands shook so badly Vincent reached toward me.
Then stopped before touching me.
I noticed.
So did Evan.
I opened the book.
Dates.
Companies.
Amounts.
Initials.
D.M.
G.V.
L.M.
Then a name written in full.
Alessandra Marlowe.
Evan leaned closer.
“What does that say?”
Beside her name, my father had written:
GAVE COPY. SHE KNOWS WHERE ORIGINAL RECORDING IS.
Vincent went pale.
“What recording?” I asked.
Before anyone answered, glass shattered behind us.
Marcus shoved Evan down.
Vincent pulled me behind the stone table.
A second window exploded.
Security moved.
Someone shouted outside.
I heard engines.
Then silence.
No heroic gunfight.
No dramatic chase.
Whoever had been watching only wanted us to know they were still there.
Marcus returned minutes later, furious.
“Vehicle escaped through the north road.”
Vincent looked at the ledger.
“They knew we'd find it.”
“How?”
I asked.
Marcus answered.
“Maybe they didn't.”
He pointed toward the broken greenhouse window.
“They may have been waiting to see whether we would lead them to it.”
Vincent closed the ledger.
“We're leaving.”
As we moved toward the door, I saw something stuck between the final pages.
An old photograph.
My father stood beside Alessandra Marlowe.
Behind them was a brick building I didn't recognize.
On the back, my father had written one sentence.
IF SOMETHING HAPPENS TO US, VINCENT MUST KNOW EVAN WAS THE REASON.
Evan read it over my shoulder.
The color drained from his face.
“What the hell does that mean?”
Nobody knew.
But for the first time, I began to understand why my mother had said Vincent stopped searching for my father because of Evan.
May you like
My father hadn't disappeared because he betrayed Vincent.
He had disappeared because he was protecting something connected to Vincent's son.
