Chapter 2 - The Man Who Remembered My Father
For eight years, I had imagined what I would say if I ever came face-to-face with Nolan Voss.
I had rehearsed accusations in the shower, on the subway, and during sleepless nights when my father's photograph seemed to stare at me from the dresser.
I had imagined Nolan denying everything.
I had imagined him laughing.
I had even imagined him pointing a gun at me.
But never, not once, had I imagined him placing a photograph of my supposedly dead father in my hands.
The picture showed a man standing outside a small grocery store.
His hair had turned almost completely gray.
His shoulders were narrower than I remembered.
A dark baseball cap concealed part of his face.
But I knew those eyes.
I knew the way he stood with his weight on his left leg, the result of an old construction injury.
And I knew the faded leather watch on his wrist.
I had given it to him for Father's Day when I was thirteen.
My fingers tightened around the photograph.
“This is impossible.”
Nolan watched me without speaking.
“My father died eight years ago.”
“I know what you were told.”
“I saw his coffin.”
“You saw a closed coffin.”
The words struck harder than the gunshots outside the mansion.
I looked at him.
“How do you know that?”
“Because I arranged the funeral.”
My stomach twisted.
“You what?”
Nolan glanced toward the driver.
“Daniel, take the expressway. Avoid the bridges near the waterfront.”
The driver nodded.
I grabbed Nolan's sleeve.
“Don't change the subject.”
He looked at my hand.
Then at my face.
“Your father's funeral was paid for through one of my companies. The money was transferred anonymously.”
“Why?”
“Because I owed him.”
“You owed him what?”
“My life.”
I stared at him.
Outside, New York's distant skyline appeared through the darkness.
Eight years ago, my father had been a shipping accountant.
Not a gangster.
Not a criminal.
He worked long hours, paid his taxes, and complained whenever I left the kitchen lights on.
He loved terrible detective movies.
He burned pancakes every Sunday.
And every time I asked whether we were poor, he told me we were rich in the things that mattered.
Nothing about him belonged in Nolan Voss's world.
“You're lying,” I whispered.
Nolan didn't argue.
Instead, he removed another photograph from the envelope.
This one showed my father standing beside a woman I didn't recognize.
She wore a dark coat and held a folder against her chest.
A date was stamped beneath the image.
October 3, 2018.
Three days before my father's supposed death.
“Who is she?” I asked.
“Evelyn Shaw. A federal financial investigator.”
I looked at him.
“My father knew a federal investigator?”
“He was helping her uncover a laundering operation inside my father's shipping business.”
“Your father's?”
Nolan nodded.
“Before I controlled the Voss organization, my father did.”
I knew the name.
Richard Voss.
A ruthless businessman whose death had been described as a heart attack shortly before Nolan inherited his companies.
“What does that have to do with my father?”
“Everything.”
Nolan leaned forward.
“Your father discovered that someone was moving money through the port using falsified cargo invoices. He believed Richard Voss was responsible. He was right about the company, but wrong about the person running the operation.”
“Who was running it?”
Nolan hesitated.
“Someone who is still alive.”
I felt anger rise through my fear.
“You expect me to trust you because you show me two photographs and tell me half a story?”
“No.”
“Then tell me the rest.”
“I will. But first I need to know something.”
“What?”
“Did your father ever give you anything before he disappeared?”
I froze.
It was such a specific question.
And suddenly I remembered a night I hadn't thought about in years.
My father had entered my bedroom carrying a small wooden music box.
It was shaped like a white cottage with a blue roof.
He told me it had belonged to my grandmother.
“Keep this somewhere safe, sweetheart,” he said. “And don't let anyone take it away.”
I had laughed.
“Why would anyone want an old music box?”
He had smiled sadly.
“Sometimes the things that look worthless are the most important.”
I hadn't seen the box in years.
After my mother's illness, I packed most of our old belongings into a storage unit.
I looked at Nolan.
“No.”
He studied my expression.
I hated that he seemed to know I was lying.
The sedan turned off the highway and approached a gated property overlooking the Hudson River.
A stone mansion rose beyond the trees.
Lights illuminated the long driveway.
“Where are we?” I asked.
“My home.”
“I want to go to the police.”
“Tomorrow, I'll arrange for you to speak with a federal attorney.”
“Why not tonight?”
“Because the people who arranged that auction have contacts in local law enforcement. Until we know who ordered the attack, I won't gamble with your life.”
I looked toward the gates.
“And you expect me to stay here?”
“No,” he said. “You can leave. But I'd like you to hear the truth first.”
The gates opened.
For the first time since the auction, I realized I had a choice.
I could demand a ride home.
I could walk away.
Or I could enter the house of the man I had hated for eight years and discover why he possessed a recent photograph of my father.
I stepped out of the car.
“I'm staying until you explain everything.”
Nolan nodded.
“Fair enough.”
Inside, the mansion was quieter than I expected.
No loud music.
No crowds.
Only polished wooden floors, old paintings, and the faint smell of coffee.
An elderly woman appeared at the end of the hallway.
She had silver hair pinned into a neat bun and wore a dark blue cardigan.
“Nolan?”
“Mrs. Bell, this is Olivia Carver.”
The woman stopped walking.
Her face changed.
“Carver?”
Nolan gave her a warning look.
“Please prepare the east guest room.”
She nodded slowly.
“Of course.”
But before she left, she looked at me with an expression I couldn't understand.
It was almost grief.
Nolan led me into his study.
Books lined the walls.
A fire burned behind a protective screen.
On the desk sat a framed photograph of a woman with dark hair and a warm smile.
I recognized her from newspaper articles.
Nolan's mother, Catherine Voss.
She had died when he was twenty-one.
“Sit down,” he said.
“I prefer standing.”
He accepted that.
Then opened a locked drawer.
Inside was a thin black notebook.
He placed it on the desk.
I recognized my father's handwriting before I saw his name.
The slanted letters.
The small circles he used instead of dots over his lowercase i's.
I reached for it.
Nolan didn't stop me.
The first page contained shipping dates and account numbers.
The second listed warehouse locations.
The third contained a handwritten sentence.
If anything happens to me, Olivia must never trust the man with the silver ring.
I read it twice.
Then looked at Nolan's hands.
He wore no rings.
“Who is the man with the silver ring?”
Nolan's expression darkened.
“My uncle.”
“What's his name?”
“Victor Voss.”
I knew that name too.
Victor was chairman of Voss Maritime Holdings.
A respected philanthropist.
A man who appeared beside senators and judges at charity events.
Nolan continued.
“My father trusted Victor with the financial side of the business. After Richard died, Victor stayed on as chairman. I believed he was helping me rebuild the legitimate companies.”
“You believed?”
“Until your father contacted me.”
I looked down at the notebook.
“Why didn't you tell the police?”
“Because two detectives who investigated your father's disappearance were receiving payments from Victor.”
My throat tightened.
“Disappearance?”
Nolan didn't correct himself.
I turned another page.
A photograph slipped from between the papers.
It showed my father standing beside Nolan.
Both men looked younger.
My father was smiling.
Nolan was not.
On the back, someone had written:
Pier Nineteen. The night we made the wrong choice.
I held it up.
“What happened that night?”
Nolan stared at the photograph.
“Your father brought evidence that Victor was laundering money and arranging illegal shipments. He wanted me to help get it to federal investigators.”
“Then why was he begging?”
“Because Victor's men had found out about you.”
My chest tightened.
Nolan's voice became quieter.
“Your father was begging me to get you out of New York before Victor reached you.”
I remembered the warehouse.
My father's voice.
My name.
Nolan turning away.
I had believed he was refusing mercy.
“What happened after you left?” I whispered.
Nolan looked toward the fire.
“Someone opened the warehouse doors. Gunmen came inside. Your father was shot.”
I felt the room tilt.
“You said he was alive.”
“He survived the shooting.”
“Then where did he go?”
Nolan hesitated.
And I saw it.
The first unmistakable sign that he was hiding something important.
“Where is my father, Nolan?”
Before he could answer, the study door opened.
Daniel stepped inside.
His face was pale.
“We found Kara Bennett.”
I turned.
“Where?”
Daniel glanced at Nolan.
“In a motel outside White Plains.”
“Bring her here,” I demanded.
Daniel didn't move.
Nolan's expression tightened.
“What's wrong?”
Daniel swallowed.
“She wasn't alone.”
“Who was with her?”
“A man from Victor's security division.”
My heart began pounding.
Daniel continued.
“And when our people entered the room, Kara told them something.”
“What?” Nolan asked.
Daniel looked directly at me.
“She said Olivia's father contacted her yesterday.”
I stared at him.
May you like
Then Daniel delivered the words that changed everything.
“He told Kara that if Olivia ever met Nolan Voss, she had to run.”
