Chapter 3 - The Man I Trusted With My Life Was Named in My Wife’s Final Recording—But He Claimed He Had Been Helping Her Save the TwinsI confronted Prescott in my office.
He entered calmly.
“You wanted me?”
“Yes.”
He closed the door.
I sat behind my desk.
He remained standing.
“What did you find?”
That question told me everything.
“You knew?”
He looked at me.
“Knew what?”
“My wife.”
His face changed.
“Lawson.”
“Don't.”
He sighed.
“I knew Genevieve was investigating.”
“You helped her.”
“Yes.”
“And then?”
“I kept her safe.”
“She died.”
He closed his eyes.
“I know.”
I showed him the video.
His face collapsed.
“I was afraid she'd leave too much behind.”
“Did you sabotage my children?”
“No.”
“You're in the records.”
“I know.”
“You had access.”
“Yes.”
“Then explain.”
He sat.
For the first time in fifteen years, he looked old.
“Genevieve came to me.”
“When?”
“Six months before she died.”
“Why?”
“She knew someone was using the organization.”
“To what?”
“To move research samples.”
I stared.
“What samples?”
“Biological samples from vulnerable families.”
She discovered the program.
She discovered your children were part of it.
She wanted out.
“I could have protected her.”
“She didn't trust you.”
The words hurt.
“Why?”
“Because she was afraid you'd respond like a man from the old world.”
He wasn't wrong.
My first instinct had always been violence.
Genevieve knew that.
She feared I would destroy everyone.
She wanted evidence first.
Prescott helped her collect it.
Then someone discovered them.
The car accident happened.
Prescott insisted it was not accidental.
He tried to investigate.
But the organization had been compromised.
He hid some evidence.
He lied to me.
I hated him for that.
But I understood why.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because Genevieve made me promise.”
“She was my wife.”
“I know.”
“She was the mother of my children.”
“I know.”
“She died.”
He looked at me.
“So did mine.”
I froze.
His wife.
I didn't know he had one.
“Her name?”
“Clara.”
“Where is she?”
“Dead.”
“How?”
“Same research network.”
Silence.
Prescott wasn't protecting Genevieve because of loyalty to me.
He was protecting her because he had lost someone too.
Emma entered.
She carried another file.
“There is more.”
She opened it.
A payment record.
Prescott was listed.
I felt betrayed again.
“What is this?”
He looked.
“That money wasn't mine.”
“Then whose?”
“Genevieve's.”
Emma nodded.
“She was paying him to move evidence.”
I stared.
My wife had been running a secret operation under my nose.
Prescott had become her shield.
Then the phone rang.
Dr. Yates.
“Lawson.”
“What?”
“We found something.”
“Tell me.”
“Your children's condition changed overnight.”
My heart stopped.
“Better or worse?”
“Better.”
I almost cried.
“Then keep treatment exactly the same.”
“Yes.”
“Who changed something?”
“No one.”
That frightened me.
“Then why?”
The doctor hesitated.
“The twins were given a different medication yesterday.”
“By whom?”
A pause.
“The pharmacy.”
My security chief traced the prescription.
It had been filled using my private account.
Someone had access.
Emma looked at Prescott.
“Vera Black.”
He nodded.
“She is moving faster.”
“Where is she?”
“Chicago.”
“How close?”
“Very.”
That night, an unmarked package arrived.
Inside was a video.
Vera appeared.
Elegant.
Middle-aged.
Cold.
She looked directly at me.
“Lawson.”
I watched.
“Your children are special.”
I clenched my fists.
“They don't deserve what you're doing.”
“They deserve to live.”
“What do you want?”
“Cooperation.”
“Never.”
She smiled.
“You misunderstand.”
She showed photographs of my children.
Then mine.
Then Emma's.
She knew everything.
“Give me access to your organization.”
“No.”
“Then your children will continue getting sick.”
I wanted to destroy her.
But she knew she had leverage.
“What access?”
“Financial accounts.”
“Why?”
“To fund the next stage.”
“Research.”
“Yes.”
I looked at Emma.
She whispered:
“She needs your company.”
“Why?”
“Because your shipping network can move samples internationally.”
I understood.
The entire criminal empire wasn't the goal.
It was infrastructure.
My warehouses.
My trucks.
My ports.
My private aircraft.
She wanted them.
I had built the weapon she'd been waiting for.
That night, Prescott brought me something.
A photograph.
Vera with Adrian Vale.
And another man.
My brother.
Thomas Mercer.
I stared.
Thomas had been dead for seven years.
Or so I believed.
“That's impossible.”
Prescott shook his head.
“That's what I thought.”
The man in the photograph was my brother.
Same face.
Same scar.
Same eyes.
But the photograph was dated six months ago.
My heart stopped.
Thomas was alive.
May you like
And if he was alive—
he knew everything.
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