Chapter 3 - The Father Who Was Supposed to Be Dead
Daniel Carter was the kind of name no one remembered.
That was intentional.
He had worked as a driver.
Sometimes security.
Sometimes courier.
He was never officially important.
But twelve years ago, he had been one of the few people trusted by my father.
And one of the few people Clara trusted.
I remembered him vaguely.
A quiet man.
Brown hair.
Scar across his chin.
Always carrying a leather notebook.
He disappeared the same year Clara did.
Three months later, I was told he had died in prison after being arrested for fraud.
Except now Emma was pointing at his photograph.
“My daddy.”
I knelt.
“How do you know?”
“Mommy has pictures.”
“Where?”
“At home.”
“Does she call him Daniel?”
Emma frowned.
“She calls him Danny.”
My throat tightened.
I looked at Harold.
“Find everything on Daniel Carter.”
He nodded.
“What about the mother?”
“Send someone to check the house.”
“I already did.”
I turned.
“What?”
“She gave us an address.”
Harold hesitated.
“She's gone.”
My stomach dropped.
“What do you mean?”
“The apartment is empty.”
“Completely?”
“Almost.”
He placed photographs on my desk.
The apartment had been searched.
Drawers overturned.
Mattress cut open.
Kitchen cabinets emptied.
Someone had been looking for something.
“What did they miss?”
Harold placed a small object on the desk.
A child's toy.
A wooden horse.
Emma recognized it immediately.
“That's mine.”
“When did you last see it?”
“Yesterday.”
She reached for it.
I stopped her.
“Wait.”
The horse had a tiny seam underneath.
I twisted it.
A compartment opened.
Inside was a memory card.
Harold looked at me.
“Interesting.”
I placed the card into a secure computer.
One video file appeared.
The footage was dated three days earlier.
Clara sat in a dim room.
She looked exhausted.
Older.
But unmistakably Clara.
My heart stopped.
“Tristan,” she said to the camera.
“If Emma has reached you, then I failed to keep the past buried.”
She paused.
“I am sorry.”
My hands trembled.
“Your father was not the only man running Blackwood's old operation.”
Another pause.
“Someone else survived.”
The video froze.
The file was corrupted.
Harold looked at me.
“We can recover it.”
“Do it.”
Emma stood beside me.
“Is that Mommy?”
“Yes.”
“She looks sick.”
“She is.”
“Are you going to find her?”
I looked at the screen.
“Yes.”
She took my hand.
I hadn't noticed she had done it until her fingers tightened.
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
The security team located Clara's last known vehicle by noon.
A motel outside Worcester.
Room twelve.
Empty.
But blood was found on the bathroom floor.
Not enough to determine death.
Enough to suggest injury.
And beside the sink was a message written in lipstick.
DON'T TRUST THE MAN WHO SAVES YOU.
The words bothered me.
Not because I understood them.
Because I didn't.
That evening, an old enemy contacted me.
Vincent Rizzo.
He had spent fifteen years trying to take pieces of Boston's waterfront from me.
He requested a meeting.
I agreed.
We met inside an empty warehouse.
Vincent looked older.
“Twelve years,” he said.
“What?”
“You've been looking for the wrong ghost.”
I stared.
“What do you know about Clara?”
He smiled.
“Enough.”
“Talk.”
“Your father didn't kill her.”
“Then who did?”
“He tried.”
My jaw tightened.
“Keep talking.”
“Clara discovered your father had a secret partner.”
“Who?”
“Someone in the family.”
“My family?”
Vincent nodded.
“Your uncle.”
I froze.
“My uncle died before I was born.”
“No.”
Vincent laughed.
“Your father told you that.”
“Who was he?”
“Arthur Blackwood.”
I had never heard the name spoken.
“Arthur was Victor's younger brother.”
“What happened?”
“He betrayed Victor.”
“Why?”
“Because he wanted the whole empire.”
I leaned forward.
“And Clara?”
“She found evidence that Arthur had been financing both sides of a war between you and the Irish.”
That explained too much.
My father had blamed Irish rivals for attacks that were actually funded from within.
Arthur had been engineering chaos.
“Where is he?”
Vincent's smile vanished.
“Closer than you think.”
Before I could ask more, the warehouse lights went out.
Gunshots exploded.
Vincent dropped.
I reached for my weapon.
The shooters vanished through the rear door.
Vincent was alive.
Barely.
He grabbed my sleeve.
“Your uncle…”
He coughed.
“Never died.”
I stared.
Then my phone rang.
The number was unknown.
I answered.
A distorted voice spoke.
“Bring the girl.”
I looked at Emma, who was in the secure car across the street.
“Who are you?”
“Someone who wants what she carries.”
“What does she carry?”
A pause.
“The proof.”
The call ended.
I immediately turned toward the car.
One of my men screamed.
“Boss!”
May you like
The rear door was open.
Emma was gone.
