Chapter 2 - The Truth About My Father
I stared at the newspaper clipping until the words stopped making sense.
The car that killed your father belonged to my family.
For sixteen years, I had believed my father died because a drunk driver ran a red light.
That was what the police told my mother.
That was what newspapers reported.
That was what I had repeated whenever forms asked about deceased parents.
Hit-and-run.
Unsolved.
Tragic.
Random.
Apparently, it had not been random at all.
I dropped the clipping onto Dominic’s dining table.
“You knew.”
“Not when I met you.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not.”
“You expect me to believe your family killed my father and you somehow never noticed my last name?”
“Hale is not uncommon.”
“My father’s photograph was in your locked cabinet.”
“I found this two months after we met.”
I laughed once.
It sounded ugly.
“Two months.”
“Yes.”
“And we’ve been seeing each other for three.”
“I know.”
“You let me come here.”
“Yes.”
“You kissed me.”
His jaw tightened.
“Yes.”
“You let me tell you about him.”
I remembered one night on Dominic’s balcony when I had described my father teaching me how to ride a bicycle.
Dominic had become strangely quiet.
At the time, I thought he was listening.
He had known.
“You sat there while I told you my father was the best man I ever knew.”
“I know.”
“And you knew your family killed him.”
“I knew there was a connection.”
“That isn’t the same thing?”
“No.”
I stepped away when he moved.
Dominic stopped immediately.
The fact that he respected the distance only made me angrier.
“Start talking.”
He did.
Sixteen years earlier, the Kessler organization had controlled several construction unions in Brooklyn and Queens.
My father owned a small electrical contracting company.
Nothing glamorous.
Hale Electrical employed fourteen men and survived mostly on commercial renovation jobs.
Then my father was offered a contract on a waterfront project partially controlled by a Kessler company.
He refused to inflate invoices.
Refused to hire phantom workers.
Refused to move cash through subcontractors.
That should have ended the relationship.
Instead, it made someone angry.
“Who?” I asked.
“My uncle Marcus.”
I knew the name.
Marcus Kessler.
Dominic’s father’s younger brother.
Sixty-two.
Chairman of three charitable boards.
Face of several real-estate developments.
He appeared in society pages beside mayors.
“What did he do?”
Dominic looked sick.
“He sent men to frighten your father.”
“Frighten him how?”
“Damage equipment. Threaten contracts.”
“And the car?”
“The driver was supposed to follow him home.”
“Follow him.”
“Yes.”
I laughed bitterly.
“My father was run over.”
“The driver claims your father confronted them.”
“Claims?”
“He’s still alive?”
“Yes.”
I moved before thinking.
I slapped Dominic.
The sound cracked through the apartment.
Neither of us moved.
My palm burned.
Dominic’s cheek reddened.
He did not lift a hand.
Did not even look angry.
“Where is he?”
“Claire.”
“Where is the driver?”
“I’m not telling you while you’re like this.”
“While I’m like what?”
“Grieving.”
“I have been grieving for sixteen years!”
“I know.”
“You don’t know anything.”
My voice broke.
I hated that.
I hated crying in front of him.
“Did your uncle order my father killed?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s convenient.”
“I swear to you.”
“What do you know?”
Dominic slowly reached into the cabinet again.
He removed a file.
Thick.
Documents.
Photographs.
Bank records.
Police reports.
“I found evidence that Marcus paid one of the responding officers.”
I stared.
“For what?”
“To classify evidence as inconclusive.”
“What evidence?”
“Paint transfer from the vehicle.”
I sat because my legs stopped working.
Dominic remained standing across the room.
“He covered it up.”
“Yes.”
“Your family covered up my father’s death.”
“Yes.”
“And you found this two months ago.”
“Yes.”
“What were you planning to do?”
“I hired an investigator.”
“Without telling me.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I needed to know whether Marcus ordered the hit before I destroyed your memory of your father’s death.”
I looked up.
“You don’t get to decide what truth I can handle.”
“I know.”
“No. You clearly don’t.”
“You’re right.”
I stopped.
It was difficult to fight someone who refused to defend the indefensible.
“You should have told me.”
“Yes.”
“The day you found out.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you?”
That was when Dominic finally looked away.
“Because I was selfish.”
The room went quiet.
“I knew what would happen when I told you.”
“You thought I’d leave.”
“Yes.”
“And you wanted more time.”
“Yes.”
The honesty hurt worse than a clever excuse.
“At least you admit it.”
“I’m not asking forgiveness.”
“Good.”
“I’m asking you to let me finish.”
I almost walked out.
Instead, I said, “Finish.”
The driver’s name was Leonard Pike.
He had worked for Marcus Kessler for twenty-seven years.
Three weeks earlier, Dominic’s investigator found him living under another name in Vermont.
Pike agreed to talk.
He claimed Marcus ordered intimidation.
Not murder.
According to Pike, my father pulled his car over because he noticed he was being followed.
An argument began.
My father photographed the men.
Pike panicked.
He accelerated.
My father was struck.
Pike insisted it was accidental.
I wanted to hate him less if it was an accident.
I couldn’t.
“What happened to the photographs?”
“Missing.”
“Of course.”
“There’s more.”
“There’s always more with you.”
Dominic accepted that.
“Your father had been collecting documents.”
“About the construction contracts?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“He was planning to report Marcus.”
“To police?”
“Possibly federal authorities.”
I closed my eyes.
My father would have done that.
He was the man who returned twenty dollars when a cashier gave him too much change.
The man who refused to let me keep a toy I stole from a pharmacy when I was five.
He made me walk back inside and apologize.
“What happened to the documents?”
“We don’t know.”
“We?”
“My investigator.”
I looked at the file.
“Why are you investigating your own uncle?”
Dominic’s expression hardened.
“Because Marcus is trying to take control of the family again.”
Again.
There was so much history inside that word.
“What does that have to do with me?”
“Possibly nothing.”
“That isn’t reassuring.”
“I know.”
He walked to the opposite side of the table but stayed several feet away.
“The foundation has been receiving irregular invoices connected to Saint Catherine’s.”
“What kind?”
“Construction. Medical transport. Consulting contracts.”
My mind went to Frederick Bell.
The way he had gripped my elbow.
His warning.
Stay away from Dominic.
“Mr. Bell.”
Dominic’s eyes sharpened.
“What about him?”
“He warned me about you.”
“When?”
“Three months ago.”
“What exactly did he say?”
I told him.
Dominic became frighteningly still.
“Why?”
“I assumed because everyone knows your family.”
“He’s received over four million dollars from companies linked to Marcus in six years.”
My stomach dropped.
“You knew?”
“I found out this week.”
“The hospital administrator is working with your uncle.”
“Possibly.”
“Using the foundation?”
“Yes.”
“For what?”
“That’s what I’m trying to determine.”
I stood.
“This is too much.”
“I know.”
“Stop saying that.”
He nodded.
I grabbed my coat.
Dominic didn’t block the door.
Didn’t ask me to stay.
When my hand touched the handle, he spoke.
“Claire.”
I turned.
“If you want the file, take it.”
I stared at him.
“That includes everything about your father.”
“Why would you give me evidence against your family?”
“Because it belongs to you.”
I took the file.
Then I left.
For nine days, I ignored every message Dominic sent.
There were only three.
The first:
I’m sorry.
The second, two days later:
Owen asked whether you know the Mets are terrible. I told him this was an inappropriate topic for recovering patients.
The third:
I will not contact you again unless there is a safety issue. Leonard Pike disappeared this morning. Please be careful.
That one frightened me.
I called my mother.
She lived in Connecticut with my stepfather.
I did not tell her everything.
Not yet.
I asked about Dad’s old paperwork.
She became quiet.
“Why?”
“I’m going through some things.”
“Claire.”
“Did Dad ever keep copies of work documents at home?”
“Your father kept copies of everything.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
She paused.
“After he died, your Uncle James helped pack the office.”
James.
My father’s younger brother.
He lived in New Jersey.
I called him.
When I mentioned Hale Electrical, he stopped talking.
“Uncle James?”
“Where are you?”
“At work.”
“Are you alone?”
The question chilled me.
“Why?”
“Claire, listen carefully. Don’t ask anyone else about those files.”
“Why?”
“Because your father got killed over them.”
I gripped the phone.
“You knew?”
“I knew he was scared before he died.”
“Why didn’t you tell us?”
“You were eleven.”
“I’m twenty-seven now.”
“I know.”
“Where are the files?”
Silence.
Then he whispered, “I hid them.”
My heart hammered.
“Where?”
Before he answered, someone spoke in the background.
James inhaled sharply.
The call ended.
I immediately called back.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
I told my charge nurse I had a family emergency.
Then I ran.
I made it halfway across the employee parking garage before the overhead lights went out.
Every instinct in my body screamed.
I stopped.
The garage emergency lamps flickered red.
Footsteps.
Behind me.
I turned.
A man stood between two parked cars.
Another appeared near the exit.
I backed away.
“Claire Hale?”
My mouth went dry.
“What do you want?”
“Your uncle gave you something.”
“No.”
“Where is it?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The first man reached inside his jacket.
I ran.
My shoes slipped against painted concrete.
I heard someone swear.
A hand caught the back of my coat.
I screamed.
Then a black SUV shot around the corner so quickly the tires squealed.
It stopped sideways.
Doors opened.
Men came out.
Fast.
Organized.
One of the attackers released me.
The other reached for something.
A bodyguard slammed him against the hood of a car.
Then Dominic appeared.
No coat.
No tie.
Gun in his right hand.
I had never seen him like that.
Not in a hospital chair.
Not over coffee.
Not beneath apartment lights.
This was the man Frederick Bell had warned me about.
Dominic moved toward me.
Stopped before touching.
“Are you hurt?”
I could barely breathe.
“No.”
His eyes moved over my face.
“Claire.”
“I said no.”
He looked at the man his guard was restraining.
“What did he want?”
“My father’s files.”
Dominic’s jaw hardened.
“My uncle knows where they are.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who does?”
“My Uncle James.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
Dominic’s phone rang.
One of his men answered his own at the same time.
His expression changed.
“Boss.”
Dominic looked over.
The bodyguard said, “New Jersey police found James Hale’s car.”
My chest stopped.
“What?”
“Abandoned near the Passaic River.”
I grabbed Dominic’s sleeve.
“Is he dead?”
“We don’t know.”
I stared at him.
His criminal world had reached into mine.
Or maybe mine had always been part of it.
I just hadn’t known.
Dominic carefully lowered his weapon.
“Come with me.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere Marcus cannot reach you.”
“I am not moving into some mafia safe house.”
“Then pick the hotel.”
“No.”
“A friend’s place?”
“No.”
“Claire.”
“I said no.”
He stopped.
And even in that parking garage, surrounded by armed men, Dominic Kessler did exactly what he had promised.
He accepted it.
“All right.”
That somehow broke me more than if he had argued.
I looked at the two men who had tried to grab me.
At the darkness around us.
At the file clutched against my chest.
Then back at Dominic.
“Your place.”
His expression did not change.
“Are you sure?”
“No.”
I swallowed.
“But I’m choosing it.”
For the first time that night, he held out his hand.
May you like
I stared at it.
Then took it.
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